


Unhooking the Stars

by Lynchy8



Series: The Life and Times of Enjolras and Grantaire [4]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Cemeteries, Depression, Domestic Violence, Good Friends, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, Smut and sexy times, Suggestions of controlling behaviour, They're back, Violence, everyone is in this at some point, lots of swearing because Grantaire and Eponine, more yorkshire accents, tags will change as we go along, this is probably going to be quite long, yay!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-19
Updated: 2013-10-06
Packaged: 2017-12-27 01:38:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 60,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/972790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lynchy8/pseuds/Lynchy8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Please make sure you have read "Incapable of Living and Dying" and "Indifference Loved" or none of the following will make any sense at all. Part III (The Many Flatmates of Courfeyrac and Jehan) will also provide some valuable context.</p><p>It is set five years after the end of "Indifference Loved".</p><p>Grantaire is frustrated. Enjolras has a secret and the pair of them muddle their way through as best they can (with a little help from their friends)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I never thought I'd need so many people

**Author's Note:**

> This is where it begins. The fourth and final part - enjoy!
> 
> EDIT: ok the above is obviously no longer true, this is not the final part. But it was true when I wrote it :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire is back in England after receiving some bad news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for mentions of depression & serious illness

Grantaire leant against the window of the train watching the British weather do its best to make him feel as miserable as possible.

So far there had only been one highlight to this trip. The old cow three seats behind and the miserable bastard in a suit two seats in front had both been giving him filthy looks since Derby. He normally wouldn’t travel First Class but he had a headache and needed the peace and quiet. They obviously disapproved of ‘his sort’ cluttering up their precious exclusive carriage. Their expressions of horror when the ticket inspector had clipped his ticket and thanked him had been entirely worth it.

Left to his own thoughts, he stared out at the grey and wretched landscape that rushed past. He knew in his head that the science of rain was the same here as it was in America, Russia, Italy or France, but his heart hated it, hated the fact that he was back.

He had managed to successfully avoid this damp little island for five years. He'd gone out of his way to avoid it, deliberately picking flights that took him via Paris rather than London or Manchester whenever he travelled. He travelled a lot.

The last year had seen him mostly in Russia and the Eastern Block, apart from a two month stint in Venice. Then he had received word from his grandfather; it was the only thing that could ever tempt him back.

He hadn’t been able to return at once. He had responsibilities, a contract to renegotiate. His agents had been as compromising as possible (he knew they were unduly lenient with him, were prepared to put up with an awful lot) but still it had taken another four months before he was able to come back.

As the train paused at Leicester he turned away from the window, away from the poster advertising an installation at the Pace Gallery in Soho. _One of his_.

+

The acclaim for his work had taken him completely by surprise. When he had gone out to the States he had expected to spend his three years there indulging in his art before being unceremoniously ejected, hopefully with a degree, and expected to try and fumble his way through the rest of his life as best he could.

That life had taken an entirely different direction in his second year when he was approached by a representative of JVJ during an independent student exhibition he had helped to organise in an abandoned warehouse by the river. At first he had scoffed. What did JVJ, the mysterious yet highly renowned philanthropist and gallery dealer, care for some little student experiment in Providence, Rhode Island, for fuck’s sake!

Little was known of the eccentric, who preferred to send agents in his place to commander his Darlings, his Congregavit. But his reputation was enormous and highly respected at an international level. It was the sort of reputation that opened all kinds of interesting doors. Interesting to everyone, that is, except Grantaire.

He sent the representative on his way with his traditional arbitrary use of medieval English vulgarisms, much to the horror and dismay of his lecturer when he found out.

“You told a JVJ rep to fuck off?” His screech could be heard in the faculty lounge. Grantaire had just shrugged.

A week later he had found a young woman leaning against the door frame of his campus studio, waiting for him. He had frowned at her, pulling all his defences up. He didn’t know it, but he had just met one of the most important and valuable friends he would ever have.

She explained that she was from JVJ, not a rep as such, more of a partner. She wanted to convince Grantaire to come on board. He outright laughed.

“You lot haven’t done your research,” he scorned, unlocking the door to his studio. She had followed him in, gazing around at his work, most of it unfinished. He noticed how she really looked at the things around her, carefully analysing, her head tilted slightly to one side, a strange knowing look playing around her face.

“I think we know exactly what we’re getting into with you,” she asserted, turning to face him, folding her arms.

“You’re difficult, you’re demanding and you’re a pain in the arse. You’re a nihilist and you prefer to be left alone. But your work is good. Better than good. It’s challenging, dark and unapologetic. It’s just what we want.”

It took a few more meetings, quite a few drinks and one last row with his lecturer before he finally agreed. JVJ became his gallery dealer, sponsor and beneficiary. He had a couple of ground rules before he signed his life away. The first and most important of these was that everything would be displayed under the pseudonym R. The second was that he would create whatever he wanted in whatever medium. He was happy to take on board requests and fulfil any quota they required so long as he had final say as to what was displayed with his name on. The final one was that he wouldn’t have to deal with anything. The partner, Cosette Fauchelevent, was more than happy to oblige.

For the first year he had remained extremely suspicious of the whole thing, expecting the rug to be pulled from under him as soon as the next Darling came along. His philosophy was that if the old man wanted to throw money at him for no reason at all, well, who was he to complain? What actually happened was worse.

It started with _The Mind of Thetis_ which, really, wasn’t even his best work at the time, just something he had knocked together. JVJ included it in an exhibition in New York. Then it went to Pennsylvania, then to Washington, before travelling on to California. Then he heard it had gone up to Vancouver in Canada.

His bank manager suddenly started being nice to him. The faculty staff kept inviting him to events, trying to introduce him to people. He rang Cosette to ask what the hell was going on. She said she’d handle it.

In the end, being part of the Congregavit had proven to be a good decision, one of his better ones. JVJ was a valuable ally and he had given Grantaire more artistic freedom than he could have imagined.

The year after he graduated, his _Breakout_ series was exhibited in Europe. These works were based on the King’s Park Lunatic Asylum in Long Island which he had broken into on a trip to New York in his first year at Uni. It had kick-started his obsession with abandoned and derelict buildings within urban landscapes.

First the series went to the UK to be displayed in Leeds, Liverpool and then a quick stint in London. Then it headed out to Eastern Europe where it turned out he was quite the cult figure.

Completely baffled by people’s interest, he agreed to travel out to the Eastern Block, to take part in installations and to continue creating pieces based on his experiences out there. His _Pripyat_ collection was, understandably, especially popular in Ukraine. The _Promyshlennyi_ series was his most recognisable work, with his 'Floor of Books' painting becoming his most successful art piece to date. The image had been inspired by a deserted classroom in the abandoned Russian city.

In the wreckage of the former Soviet Union, he continued to cultivate his alter-ego, determined to stay as far out of the limelight as possible. Wherever he went, he always left a piece behind, signed with his famous rebus. These were displayed by local galleries as a badge of honour: “R was here!”

R became a whisper, a myth, a legend on the independent art scene. He worked to separate the man from the artist, suddenly introducing himself wherever he went as Grantaire, sacrificing his more comfortable identity for the sake of a quiet life.

His trip to Venice had almost been disastrous. After the honest, bleak landscapes of Russia, he found the fussiness of the Italian city to be grossly decadent and distasteful to his nihilistic appetites. He was frustrated and hardly produced anything. A small exhibit of works was displayed at the Punta della Dogana gallery to some amused interest from the locals.

When he got on the plane to Hungary he promised himself he would never again return to that self-satisfied over-hyped marshland in disguise.

He entertained himself by keeping up with the latest gossip regarding R.

R had quickly become its own entity, with the internet outdoing itself with increasingly absurd and unlikely conspiracy theories. He had a whole website dedicated to it, cringingly called ‘Rtist’. Several people claimed to know the “real R”. He had died at least three times and had apparently sired any number of children all over the world. One small group were adamant that he was Prince Harry, who famously had achieved an A Level in Art. Their evidence was that the R stood for royal. This amused Grantaire greatly.

His personal favourite, and one that he actively encouraged by trolling the forum where it had started, claimed that he was actually a woman forced to assume an ambiguous identity in order to get the credit for her works in a predominantly sexist society. Something about the tone of the argument reminded him of Enjolras.

Enjolras, who he hadn’t properly spoken to in five years. Enjolras, who always sent him an email on his birthday and at Christmas (he did the same, every year, without fail). Enjolras who apparently had been at the terminal that day, as he was so reliably informed by his grandparents, but had arrived too late. When he’d read that email he had very nearly got on the next plane home. Nearly.

+

Grantaire took his phone out of his pocket and scrolled through his emails to find the address of the estate agents that Cosette had sent him. Cosette had been an absolute angel in the past few months. In the three years they had worked together they had inevitably become close friends as well as colleagues. However she had gone above and beyond all duties for him recently and he owed her a tremendous debt.

It was Cosette who flew all the way to Budapest to be with him when he got the news that his beloved grandmother had cancer. It was Cosette who fixed his contract so that he would be able to work from London for the foreseeable future.

Cosette had arranged a charity exhibition and auction of his work in York for Cancer Research, something positive to do while they waited for everything to be finalised. That exhibition was the first time he really paid attention to what other people thought about his art and it struck him pretty hard. He told himself it was for charity, that they were merely donating to a worthy cause but the staggering amount of money raised that night could not simply be explained away like that.

People had come from all over the country, all over the world, to get the opportunity to own a genuine R.

He had gotten spectacularly drunk that night, even by his standards. He was grateful that Cosette was staying with him at the time. She made sure he was tucked up safe in bed with a bowl, a glass of water and two painkillers by his bed.

She had subsequently sought out and purchased a studio in London on his behalf. This studio had a double purpose. Grantaire would be able to indulge in some 'real life' and he planned to set up a photography workshop, a little something to keep him occupied. R could then continue providing pieces for JVJ as agreed. She told him the studio was his, bought with his money and in his name. It was not part of the JVJ Empire. He felt extremely grateful for that.

Arriving in Saint Pancras International, he heaved his large rucksack onto his shoulder and headed out into the wet and weary city.

+

The estate agent eyed him suspiciously and, to be fair, he didn’t blame her. He wasn’t wearing his suit, he had no umbrella so his hair was a complete shambles and he looked like he had just fallen off a park bench.

After presenting his passport as a form of identity she finally handed over the keys to his new studio. He played with them in his pocket, memorising their outline as he hailed a taxi to take him to his new place of work.

He stared up at the building in awe. It was his, actually his. He’d never had anything like this before. It was overwhelming. Turning the key in the lock he felt a chill spill through him. It was perfect.

It was separated into three clear areas. The first area had a front space ideal for a reception, with a door that led through to the rear which could be used as a photography studio. Up the stairs was a small space just right for an office and staffroom area with a little kitchenette. Across the hallway was a larger studio space with big windows and a skylight. It was faultless. Grantaire owed Cosette a huge bunch of flowers for her epic choice.

He tried the light switches and taps. No electric and no water. That was a bit of an issue. He’d be able to get them switched on, no problem, but right now he had no place to stay. He had hoped to crash in his studio but while he was prepared to put up with a lot, even he had his limits and a lot of those revolved around the need for heat, light and water. He took out his mobile and googled for local hotels.

+

There was so much to sort out. The first thing he desperately needed was a smoke and a coffee, perhaps with a little nip of something for focus. Then he’d make a list.

He hated dealing with things, but he honestly couldn’t expect Cosette to fix his whole life, especially from the other side of the Atlantic. No, his first job would be to advertise for a Personal Assistant, someone who would be able to organise his extraordinarily complicated life, put up with him and make sure he made it to places on time and in appropriate attire. It was not a job for the faint hearted.

He arranged for an advert in a number of London free papers and moved on to his next task; he needed a roof over his head.

He had only been back in the country for three weeks. He had no credit history here, or employment history. He had no English referees, though he was sure JVJ would provide one if he was desperate. He knew it was going to be a nightmare trying to find somewhere to live.

Although he could have easily afforded to buy somewhere, it would have taken far too long for his liking, as well as the added risk that he didn’t know how long he would be here. Buying a studio was one thing, committing to an actual house was quite another.

He hadn’t shared with anyone since his first year at Rhode Island. Living with a group of people his own age had rubbed his corners off a bit, but not much. He still was extremely guarded about his personal space and privacy. He was, however, a bit more relaxed about making plans. Working with Cosette and JVJ had also made him appreciate the difference between control and structure which made him a lot easier to interact with.

Which reminded him; he needed to register with a doctor at the first available opportunity to get his medical records sent over and his prescriptions filled at the nearest pharmacist. He hadn’t been able to bring much through customs due to the regulations so he only had about a week’s supply left.

This whole moving countries lark was far too much like hard work. He grabbed his keys and headed out to find a pub. Halfway down the road he paused at a newsagents to pick up a couple of local papers. At least then he could start solving the housing situation.

Sitting in a quiet corner, pint in hand, he ran his fingers down the list of likely rooms. A lot of them called for young professionals and he wasn’t entirely certain that he fitted that category. He also wasn’t sure he wanted to live with people who thought he might _be_ a young professional, for that matter.

He called a few numbers but found they had either all long been taken or required some references or paper work from previous landlords. Two pints later he was feeling quite desperate. It was as though this fucking city didn’t want him living in it.

He flicked through his call history. He had made thirty-seven calls. He huffed impatiently. He decided that he would make a maximum of thirteen more calls before he went back to Sheffield, writing off the whole thing as a bad idea.

The first three failed to answer his call at all. The fourth one sounded very apologetic indeed but the flat had just been rented out only minutes before. Call number five was even worse as the woman didn’t sound at all apologetic and hung up on him briskly. He tapped in the number for call number forty-two and held his breath.

A light voice answered at the second ring, just as Grantaire had taken a mouthful of beer.

“Please,” sputtered Grantaire, quickly covering a cough, “for the love of all that I don’t believe in, tell me the room is still available!”

There was an uncertain pause on the line, before the voice, which was evidently trying to suppress a giggle, replied the affirmative. Relief and jubilation washed through Grantaire.

“Oh thank fuck for that!” he exclaimed, drawing some looks from the bar, “It’s mine. I claim it!” he began scrabbling around for a pen to circle the advert in the paper with stars and fireworks. There was a delightful chuckle from the other end of the phone as the voice protested that he hadn’t even seen the room yet. Grantaire was not to be swayed.

“Don’t care,” he said, his free hand making a sweeping gesture across the table, barely avoiding spilling his drink. “It could be a cupboard as far as I’m concerned. I’m not even sure about the requirement for windows and a door at this stage.” The happiness had definitely gone to his head. Who knew what his potential new housemate must have thought.

Luckily he still seemed to be laughing easily. Grantaire felt drawn to his laugh, this easy warmth that flowed through his speaker. He leant forward, as though making a confession to the phone.

“Do you know you’re the forty-second person I’ve rung today about rooms for rent?” Grantaire thought he might have fallen in love a little at the next moment when the enchanting voice made a Hitchhiker’s Guide quip. He had to have this flat. He needed this flat. Everything about this felt good, somehow, a feeling he wasn’t used to experiencing all that often.

The other person didn’t sound all that convinced and, to be honest, Grantaire could understand. He could come across a bit strong, especially if he was starting to cycle. _Oh he prayed to non-existing entities that he wasn’t about to cycle_ , that it was just the situation, the beer, the new studio, the fact that he was back in this horrible little country.

“I assure you, I’m the perfect flatmate,” he lied. Well, they’d find out soon enough. Judging by the post code the flat wasn’t that far away from his studio which would be a useful bolt-hole if things got rough.

In the next moment they were arranging to meet at a pub so they could all have a preliminary chat. As far as Grantaire was concerned, it was a done deal and he put the phone down thoroughly satisfied.

+

He’d calmed down a bit by the time he made his way into the designated pub at the appropriate time. He’d spent the afternoon sorting out a few more details with the studio and had retired to a café with wifi so that he could Skype Cosette to let her know he had got his keys ok and that progress was being made with housing and things. She seemed pleased.

“Have you emailed him?” she asked, right at the end as they were winding the conversation down. Grantaire sighed. He didn’t need to ask who she was talking about. He bit his lip, pulling his hand through his curls defensively.

“I will. Just, not til I’m settled. I’d like to know where I am before I make contact.” She nodded and didn’t press him any further.

The pub was quiet. He went to the bar and ordered a pint. He was still enamoured with the joy of being able to order real ale again. He had been thoroughly bored with the American lagers, although he had approved of the many Russian spirits to be enjoyed in the East. But real ale made him think of cold Yorkshire winters and good home cooking.

He cast a suspicious eye over the occupants of the pub, looking out for any likely housemates. In the far corner were two men about his own age, one stocky and well-built with light brown hair that tumbled about his head in loose waves. The other was slightly taller, with strawberry blonde hair shoved up into an untidy bun, with gleaming green eyes that he could appreciate from all the way over here. This was surely Jehan, the owner of the voice from earlier.

Jehan smiled and waved him over.

“Grantaire?” He nodded the affirmative, holding out his hand to shake first Jehan’s slim, delicate fingers and then the other boy’s firmer palm. “This is my boyfriend, Courfeyrac,” they smiled at each other with a polite nod. “And you’d like to come and live in our spare room.”

“Yes, definitely.” He sat down in the empty chair, wondering why he suddenly felt nervous. Jehan produced a piece of paper from his bag and passed it over the table. Grantaire glanced at what appeared to be a list. Jehan smiled sweetly at him, but there was an undercurrent in his eyes that belied him. Grantaire swallowed.

“Is this some kind of hazing?” he asked uncertainly, because if it was, the last miserable lot who had tried to haze him…

“Not exactly,” Courfeyrac spoke at last. “We’ve had a few… issues. We’d like to know now about any problems we might encounter so that we don’t waste your time. Or our time, come to that.”

Grantaire looked back down at the list.

1) Do you eat carrot soup?  
2) Do you intend on burning any joss sticks?  
3) Do you respect the poetry of others no matter where it has been expressed?  
4) Are you sexually attracted to Courfeyrac?   
5) Do you have any intention of trying to sleep with Courfeyrac?  
6) Do you have a problem with the poetry of e e cummings?  
7) Do you have a problem with the poetry of e e cummings in a sexual context?  
8) Are you planning on building an army of Cybermen in order to destroy the earth?  
9) Do you have any opinions on two people who love each other being in a committed and active relationship?

Grantaire grinned, tugging a hand through his hair. He took a deep breath.

“Ok, here goes. Not really. No. Yes. There is no right answer to question 4. No. No. No. No, but that’s a cool idea. And now is probably a good time to mention that I’m gay.”

He shrugged his shoulders, hoping he had given the right answers. He looked up to see two very wide smiles. He smiled back, shyly.

“So you guys have had a few issues, huh?” There was a collective groan and rolling of eyes. What followed was an easy, organic conversation, starting with the swapping of stories regarding nightmare housemates, followed by difficult University experiences, tough lecturers, easy lecturers and everything else they could chat about.

Grantaire found out that Courfeyrac was a newly qualified solicitor and that Jehan worked in a book shop to suppliment his blossoming poetry career. He found out that Courfeyrac and Jehan had known each other for a number of years but had only been together for ten months.

“Well, look, if you guys need your privacy, my studio is within walking distance of here,” he offered helpfully. Jehan’s eyes lit up.

“Studio?”

“Yeah, I’m setting up a photography workshop. Mostly freelance. I’ll probably end up doing a few weddings as they’re quite a nice, easy job.” He nodded, trying to keep it vague, not ready to share the full extent of his identity just yet.

Courfeyrac suddenly pointed out that this was all very well but Grantaire still hadn’t seen the flat yet. They finished their drinks and made their way down the street to the flat. Grantaire was pleased that it was such a short stumbling distance from that fine drinking establishment.

They opened the street door with a key and made their way upstairs. Another door led into a hallway. Jehan flicked on the light. “Room on the right is Courf’s, that little door there is mine.” They all moved into the hallway together. Seeing Grantaire’s raised eyebrows Jehan blushed.

“I prefer to maintain my own space,” he muttured. Grantaire could understand that all too well. He smiled warmly and moved further down the hall.

“That’s the bathroom,” he gestured to the door just up from Courf’s room. “And this is you.”

It was a small but pleasant room, furnished with a double bed, a wardrobe and a little desk with a chest of drawers doubling as a bedside table.

“Looks perfect to me,” said Grantaire, following the other two further into the flat. At the end of the hall it opened out into a spacious living area with open plan kitchen. A set of French doors led out to a small balcony.

“Jehan is in charge of the rent and bills. He has a separate account you can pay into by setting up a Standing Order.” Courfeyrac rubbed his hand on his boyfriend’s shoulder.

Grantaire looked around him, a strange pleasant sensation filling his chest. It was an unusual feeling for him but he allowed it to wash over him rather than panic him. He could live here quite easily.

“Great. When can I move in?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok - a few points of interest for you.
> 
> Congregavit is latin for Gathered. They are a group of people chosen by the head of JVJ - people who have caught his eye and who he wants to help out, promote and otherwise encourage in their endeavours.
> 
> The Kings Park Lunatic Asylum is a real place as well - worth looking up as the images are quite breathtaking. You can see why a lot of people do break in there.
> 
> Pripyat is the city that was abandoned in the wake of the Chernobyl disaster. It is meant to be a no-go area but some people (urban tourists) frequently flout this rule to explore the ruins.
> 
> Promyshlennyi is another abandoned city. The words translates into English as "Industry". The city itself fell into disuse after the fall of the USSR. The abandoned classroom is real.
> 
> Venice - personally I love the city, but I can totally see why R would hate it with a passion.
> 
> A note on depression - my Grantaire does not necessarily have bipolar but he does experience cycles of depression. He has learnt to fear his moods and becomes quite worried at how his mind reacts in certain situations.
> 
> The title of the chapter is taken from David Bowie's song "Five Years"


	2. Orestes Reunited with Pylades, who may be a little drunk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Population of London: 8 million
> 
> Number of angry ex-boyfriends who must be avoided at all costs: 1
> 
> What are the chances?

It took a week to organise a van to bring Grantaire’s stuff down from Sheffield. During that time, so he wasn’t shelling out on expensive London hotels, he returned back to his grandparent’s house for a bit.

Both were happy to have him back with them. His grandmother was waiting for the latest results of a scan after her first round of chemotherapy. She was tired but her usual cheerful self and nothing was going to stop her from doting on her grandson.

She was ridiculously proud of him and his achievements, though he wished she wouldn’t bring it up so much. He honestly had no idea why people were drawn to his work. He produced pieces for himself and the fact that people – lots of people, lots of people whose opinions mattered – seemed to think they were good was something he had a lot of trouble dealing with.

He was grateful that it had meant he had the money to pay for private healthcare for them so she had received treatment more quickly than if she’d sat on the NHS waiting list.

Being back in that kitchen while she bustled around him made him smile in a sad sort of way. The house hadn’t changed all that much. His room was pretty much how he had left it except a lot of things were now packed into boxes. He had taken next to nothing with him to America and had never really come back to claim it.

Dismantling the wall had been a very hard job. Some things went in the bin, some things he put in a pile to send over to JVJ (Cosette had made him promise to send any “early works” to her for cataloguing). The photos he put in a box to come down to London with him.

He looked at the photo of him and Enjolras and wondered when would be a good time to email. Would the guy even want to know he was back in the country after all this time? Probably not.

+

He got the first train back down to London on the Friday morning so he would arrive at the flat before the truck. As he turned into the street, he passed Courfeyrac who was on his way out to work. The guy stopped cheerfully to pull him into a crushing bear hug.

“Welcome to the mad house! Jehan has your keys,” and with a cheerful wave he was gone.

Jehan did, indeed, have his keys. With a great show and ceremony he graciously presented these to Grantaire who glowed with pleasure. Door keys always felt special to him.

As they waited for the van to arrive, Jehan offered him a tea. He reeled off a long list of every kind of fruit and herbal tea under the sun.

“Got any coffee?” he asked hopefully. Jehan frowned. Grantaire sighed internally, wishing the truck was already here so he could unpack his percolator.

“Fine. I’ll have a green tea, please.” The smile was back on Jehan’s face and he moved delicately towards the kettle. Grantaire tugged a hand through his curls, distractedly, trying to wake himself up a bit. As Jehan opened the cupboard door he spotted a jar of honey on the shelf. Before had really thought about it, he had asked Jehan to pass it over. Jehan raised his eyebrows.

“You have honey in your green tea?” It was a fair question. Especially as Grantaire suddenly realised that, actually, he wasn’t all that fond of honey in his green tea. What on earth had possessed him? But it was too late now. Jehan had already slid the jar across the counter. He stirred in a spoonful and took a sip. It tasted exactly as he remembered it, but somehow he didn’t seem to mind so much.

The sound of the door buzzer pulled them from their reverie. The van was here.

The next hour or so was spent helping shift the boxes out of the van up the stairs. Grantaire realised belatedly that a lot of this stuff would be better off at his studio which meant that at some point he was going to have to shell out for a taxi or something, as well as carry the damn things back down the stairs again.

When it was finally done they waved off the van cheerily and set about unpacking the boxes, sorting out what was staying and what could go to the studio.

“Oh, wow!” Jehan exclaimed, pulling a painting out of one of the portfolio cases. His eyes were as big as saucers. “How on earth did you afford one of these?” He turned in excitement to his new flatmate who was suddenly rather hot under the collar.

“You’re familiar with the artist?” he enquired casually, trying not to look too fussed about it. He felt relieved when Jehan shook his head.

“Well, no, not really. But some of my friends are big fans.” He set the painting down carefully, with an air of reverence. “We went to an exhibition last year, though, and some of the price tags were quite eye-watering.” He laughed but then his expression changed and he stopped. He fixed Grantaire with a penetrating look and he couldn’t help but swallow nervously. The young man lazily closed his eyes and let out another laugh, this one softer.

“Oh, I’m being really stupid aren’t I.” It wasn’t a question. Jehan shook his head, a playful smile returning to his face as he turned his gaze back to Grantaire.

“It’s you, isn’t it. You’re R.”

Grantaire pulled a face, but Jehan’s expression was so soft, so trustworthy he felt his usual protective core melt with the force of it. He ran a hand over his suddenly dry mouth.

“I’d prefer it if you kept that information to yourself. I’m sort of incognito,” he said, moving to open another box. Jehan nodded enthusiastically, miming a zip across his lips.

“Not a soul, I swear,” He promised, raising his hand. “Nice pun, by the way,” he added after a moment of silence. Grantaire couldn’t help but smile.

+

A loud knock on the door indicated that Courfeyrac was home. He stuck his head round Grantaire’s bedroom door, smiling warmly.

“Everything ok?” he enquired, genially. It was an infectious smile, one Grantaire couldn’t help but return.

“We’re headed out to the pub to meet some friends tonight. Did you want to come? Jehan wants to show you off.” Grantaire felt the heat rise to his cheeks, even though he knew his new friend would keep his secret as promised.

They were headed out to a pub a short bus ride away as it was a more central meeting point for everyone. Jehan and Courfeyrac explained that they were a group of people they had met at University and they had all remained tight friends ever since. One of them was even a former flat mate.

“One of our better ones,” Jehan promised, seeing Grantaire’s surprised smile.

The pub was crowded and lively. They headed over to a group of tables that had been pushed together and were already occupied by some people who called and shouted out greetings as they approached. Grantaire felt a rising sensation of claustrophobia set in. He wasn’t used to being around so many people.

Courfeyrac clapped him on the shoulder.

“Let me introduce you to everyone,” he bellowed, gesturing at the four guys in front of him.

“This is our resident teacher and guide, Combeferre.” They shook hands while Grantaire tried to remember why that name felt familiar somehow. He saw a curious shadow pass over the young man’s face as they shook hands but didn’t have time to ponder on it further as Courfeyrac quickly moved him on.

“Joly, a fine doctor and a cheerful fellow, just don’t get him started on bacteria of the skin.” Joly flushed, but smiled enthusiastically so Grantaire didn’t mind that he did not proffer a hand to shake.

The next man was the opposite, taking his hand in a crushing grip.

“Bahorel,” he barked his own introduction and Grantaire recognised a kindred spirit when he saw one. He saw in the lines of his arms the muscles of a boxer, in his glint the eyes of a fighter, in his handshake the warmth of loyalty and friendship.

“Ah, now careful Bossuet,” chided Courfeyrac, as a young, bald man, stumbled towards them while trying to save the drinks he was clutching from crashing to the floor. He shuffled into the seat next to Joly, shooting him an apologetic look. Joly patted his hand and Grantaire felt himself smile at the small, intimate gesture.

“Finally, we have here Feuilly.” The ginger-haired man gave Grantaire an appraising look, and he found himself shifting uneasily under that gaze. “Feuilly, here, is something of an artist.” Courfeyrac boasted on his friend’s behalf. The young man smiled, his bottom lip sticking out slightly at the effusive praise.

“When I have the time,” he said, shrugging modestly. Grantaire nodded, trying to be polite but feeling far too self-conscious. He suspected that Feuilly was the friend Jehan had been referring to and that he probably recognised him. He was eager to retreat from the situation, wanting to avoid a scene at the moment. Luckily Jehan, seeing his discomfort, rescued him with some well-placed questions to Joly about his new job at the hospital. He was grateful for the distraction as attention was drawn away from him.

An hour later and three pints gone, Grantaire was feeling thoroughly at home. The happy noise bubbled around him and made him feel more at home than he had in his years abroad. He was right about his impressions of Bahorel. Already the two had declared each other as brothers, drinking and laughing together. Bahorel had promised to take Grantaire to his gym. He was intrigued to hear Grantaire talk about Single Stick, something he had picked up at his time in America, despite it being a British sport.

He only looked up when Courfeyrac, now warm with alcohol and Jehan perched upon his lap, suddenly called out in a comradely manner.

“Ah-ha! It is our fearless leader! Come, say hello to our new flatmate.”

Grantaire froze. Every part of him seemed to contract in on itself as he stared into a pair of ridiculously familiar blue eyes.

“Grantaire, this is Enjolras, my dear friend and chief of our group. Enjolras may I humbly present our new housemate.”

Dear Courfeyrac, far too enthusiastic to pick up on the chill that had settled over these two apparent strangers, smiled broadly, mock bowing at his friends. The two men regarded each other. Enjolras wore his hair longer now, tied back with a black ribbon. His face was measured and controlled, his nose giving an aloof impression, his eyes cold and hard.

Grantaire held himself with more of a stoop, the weight of the world pushing him down. He, too, had kept his hair quite long, his curls wild as was his preference. Both were older. Both had been caught out by the surprise of the other suddenly in their company. Both were silent.

Courfeyrac finally noticed the awkward silence. He frowned, somewhat unsure of this reaction when Grantaire had been welcomed so readily and happily by the others. He took in the still way his new flatmate held himself, before regarding how Enjolras seemed to have drawn himself up quite tall.

“You two know each other?” It was Feuilly who broke the silence, watching with a serious curiosity.

“We went to school together,” Enjolras stated calmly, not taking his eyes from the curly-haired man before him.

“Oh,” said Courfeyrac suddenly, eager to try and fill the awkward silence with any words at all. “Like, with that guy who got stabbed -” he was cut off as Jehan elbowed him sharply in the ribs but the damage was done. Both Enjolras and Grantaire closed their eyes, wincing at those terrible words.

“Of course you told everyone,” Grantaire muttered bitterly, shaking his head. He turned around the grab his jacket, ignoring the embarrassed and surprised looks from the others at the table.

“It was nice meeting you all,” he called out with a forced cheerfulness, before pushing past Enjolras toward the door. Casting an angry glare at his boyfriend, Jehan took off after him.

“Was that…?” Combeferre began, breaking the awkward silence.

“Yes,” Enjolras interrupted, not looking at anyone. He strode purposefully off to the bar. Combeferre sighed, shifting in his seat so he could follow his friend.

“What did I say?” Courfeyrac stared after Enjolras’s retreating figure. He may occasionally be tactless, but he was by no means cruel and his heart ached to think he may have upset his friends. Combeferre patted him consolingly on the shoulder.

“It’s not completely your fault,” he said generously. “It’s just your new flatmate happens to be Enjolras’s ex-boyfriend.” Combeferre smiled sadly at him before moving to join Enjolras at the bar, leaving a table of open mouths behind him.

“Ok,” said Courfeyrac eventually. “Hands up everyone who knew Enjolras even had an ex-boyfriend.”

None of the four friends behind him moved.

+

Jehan found Grantaire leaning against the wall outside the pub, smoking, staring up at the sky.

“I imagine the stars are different here,” he mused, exhaling into the night. “Assuming you could see the fuckers,” he dropped his gaze to Jehan who was loitering nearby, his hands folded behind his back.

“You know, it was really nice to be known as ‘the cool new flatmate’ for all of one hour, rather than ‘that freak whose father tried to kill him’” he said bitterly, stamping on his cigarette butt.

He was so unbelievably angry right now, but it was a useless, tired anger. If there was something up there it must really hate him. To constantly be dropping Enjolras haphazardly into his life, wrong-footing him at each and every moment, it was intolerable.

Of course he wasn’t allowed to be happy. What on earth had made him think that he would be permitted to keep these new friends he had found, this lovely group of people he had stumbled upon. This welcome bunch who had accepted him without effort, without question. And for what? For Enjolras to storm in, as usual, and blow it all out of the water. Angrily, he lit up another cigarette.

“Are you going to move out?” Jehan’s voice was quiet, like a child’s voice expecting bad news. Grantaire took another drag on his cigarette.

“Do you want me to?” he was utterly dejected, too tired to keep up his guard, especially not with the young man who stood before him.

“No,” Those deep green eyes bore into him with sincerity. Thin arms and neat fingers curled around him, pulling him into a gentle hug as Jehan pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“Come on,” he said, taking Grantaire’s hand, “let’s get you home.”

+

Enjolras felt like someone was playing a bad joke on him. As he stood at the bar waiting to be served, he felt the comforting presence of his old friend.

“So that’s him, is it?” Combeferre didn’t look at him, didn’t try and touch him. He just stood there, giving Enjolras the opportunity to talk to him or to tell him where to go. The blonde sighed.

“What is he doing here, ‘Ferre?” He couldn’t keep the bite out of his tone. He was so angry. Was he to be constantly blighted by that man’s presence for the rest of his days?

“If it helps, I think he was just as shocked as you. I doubt he was here intentionally,” Combeferre replied calmly. He had seen the look of abject horror and terror when Enjolras had joined them. There had hardly been a pin to choose between the looks of surprise on each man’s face.

Grantaire hadn’t been what he had expected. When Courfeyrac had introduced the shy, curly haired man he had puzzled over the name but thought it must be a coincidence. He had known Enjolras for over six years; he couldn’t quite see how his friend had spent most of that time going completely mad over the man he had just met.

He didn’t hold anything against Grantaire. He had seemed pleasant enough and had fitted quite neatly with the dynamic of the group. However, he couldn’t help but remember how utterly broken his best friend had been for months after the man had left for America. He felt a wave of anxiety on his friend’s behalf. What were the fates playing at, throwing these two together again?

+

Jehan opened the French windows and pushed Grantaire out onto the balcony. They slumped into the deck chairs placed out there, Jehan offering a Gauloise while he faught to open a bottle of wine. He poured them out two generous glasses. They smoked together in silence.

“So, you and Enjolras, huh?” Grantaire grimaced at Jehan’s deliberately casual tone. He shook his head, wondering how the hell he could even begin to explain this one.

“It was a long time ago,” he said at last. The traffic in the streets below hummed around them and he still couldn’t see the stars. Jehan blew a smoke ring, choosing to remain silent.

“I didn’t know you guys knew each other,” the thought suddenly struck Grantaire, filling him with concern. Jehan nodded his understanding, flicking his ash over the balcony edge.

“We haven’t spoken properly in five years.”

And suddenly all he can think about is the look on that gorgeous face the last time he had seen him; the anger and betrayal in those amazing blue eyes, eyes that had only ever seen him, seen all the way through him to his core. He shivered slightly with the memory. He wished fervently that they had been able to part on better terms. He wished he had been able to get over his fear and just ring the guy before getting on that flight, just to say goodbye properly, rather than waiting and hoping that Enjolras would call first, even though he knew he never would. It was all too late now.

More than anything, he wished he had stayed in Sheffield.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, nearly all the chess pieces are in place.


	3. Speak the Speech (as many of your players do)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the morning after the night before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for blood, injuries and very brief mentions of suicide

When Grantaire woke up, he was surprised to find that he didn’t have the hangover he felt he deserved. This probably had everything to do with the amount of water Jehan had insisted he drink before going to bed, may the stars bless that darling poet.

The pair of them had sat out on the balcony for most of the night, smoking Jehan’s cigarettes and swapping stories until Courfeyrac had rolled in some time after midnight. By the time he had crawled into bed he felt a lot better about the whole “my ex-boyfriend is one of your best friends” situation.

He mused on what he could possibly have done to deserve being cast into such a mess. The steely, emotionless look from Enjolras was branded upon his mind. Over the years Enjolras had aimed a number of different expressions in his direction but none of them had been as empty as that. It was the sort of look that made him want to go back to bed forever and never emerge.

He recognised the feeling and, for once, decided to fight against it fiercely. Fuck Enjolras and his looks. This was his life, these were his flatmates. Last night with Jehan had been really good.

 _Best foot forward_ , he told himself, crawling from his pit.

Through his bedroom door he could hear the strains of a muted trumpet, a tune that sounded an awful lot like it was performed by the Glenn Miller Orchestra, but with a slower tempo. He stumbled out into the hallway and made for the living room.

Jehan was lying on the sofa, upside down, his delicate ankles crossed on the backrest while his hair splayed beautifully across the floor. His arms were folded protectively across himself as he blew smoke rings into the air. His green eyes were fixed in space and he didn’t move when Grantaire shuffled into the room.

Grantaire studied the man for a moment, taking in the shape of the guy in front of him, imagining transferring the image to paper. He considered what medium would work best and had just decided to go back to his room to grab a pencil when the song changed to a track he recognised.

“Is this Al Bowlly?” he enquired. Jehan made no sign of surprise that Grantaire was in the room watching him so keenly. He made a soft noise of confirmation in the back of his throat and Grantaire strode forward, reaching out to the boy, offering his hand.

“May I have this dance?” he offered sincerely. He waited as the green eyes looked up at him, carefully judging, before lowering demurely in agreement. Jehan flopped from his position and rose to meet Grantaire’s outstretched hands.

_Love is the sweetest thing_  
 _What else on earth could ever bring_  
 _Such happiness to everything_  
 _As love’s old story?_

“You’re good,” murmured Jehan appreciatively as they moved gracefully across the floor, Grantaire leading with confidence.

_Whatever hearts may desire_  
 _Whatever lies may say_  
 _This is the tale that never will tire_  
 _This is the song without end_

As the music moved into a crescendo, Grantaire dipped him, his long, loose hair spilling elegantly. When the song ended they stood together for a moment, staring at each other, cheeks flushed and eyes bright. Jehan’s lips twitched into a smile.

“Courfeyrac is a lucky man,” Grantaire said, so quietly Jehan barely heard him. Just then the bedroom door opened and they moved quickly to stand apart as the man himself emerged from his room, calling out for coffee. Grantaire sprang into action.

“Ah-ha!” he cried, gleefully. “You, my friend, are going to love me.”

He pressed a number of buttons on his percolator and it started to grumble away to itself. Courfeyrac shot him a sleepy grin.

“You can definitely stay,” he said. An awkward silence suddenly descended as the echoes of the night before drifted through the flat. Courfeyrac cleared his throat.

“Look, I’m really, really sorry about last night.” He apologised so sincerely, Grantaire had to fight the urge to run from the room and hide somewhere. He didn’t want apologies. It wasn’t even Courfeyrac’s fault. He just wanted to forget about it.

“I know I have a big mouth and I really didn’t mean to embarrass you. I honestly had no idea that you and Enjolras –”

“It’s fine,” Grantaire interrupted, because he didn’t want to think about _him and Enjolras_ right now because there was no him and Enjolras. Not anymore. Courfeyrac shot a look at Jehan who had folded his arms in a purposeful way and was staring pointedly at his boyfriend. Evidently Courfeyrac was still not forgiven as far as he was concerned.

“Look,” he said, drawing up one of the breakfast bar chairs. “What you have to understand is that Enjolras never told us anything about you. Nobody knew you existed.” Jehan’s eyes widened further, making a slightly choked noise of outrage and Courfeyrac went a funny colour as the full realisation of what he had just said hit him.

“Ok, sorry, that came out really bad.”

Grantaire almost felt sorry about Courfeyrac. He was obviously a nice guy who meant extremely well. It would be sweet if he didn’t feel this horrible knot of panic, sadness and despair sitting in the base of his guts. He didn’t like the way this conversation was going. If he wasn’t ready for both his flatmates to know the full truth about his career as an artist, he definitely wasn’t ready for the conversation about his past.

“I think,” Jehan broke in at that point, taking pity on his boyfriend and moving to take control of the conversation, “that it would be better if we told you what we do know. Then you have all the information but you don’t have to share anything else until you’re ready. If you ever are ready, that is.”

Grantaire considered this for a moment, before nodding his assent.

+

Courfeyrac met Enjolras in their first year of University. They started chatting at the LGBT table in the fresher’s fayre, bonded over the fact that they were both doing a Law degree and soon became firm friends.

Enjolras shared his halls with Bossuet who also started out doing Law but dropped out half way through the year, switching to History. Bossuet was a great guy, always the first to laugh at himself but he was terribly unlucky.

In the last week of term before the Christmas holidays, the Law students had decided to hold a traditional Christmas dinner amongst themselves. Nobody could quite remember whose bright idea it had been, but Bossuet had ended up carving the turkey. Of course, the inevitable happened.

While everyone else jumped into action, grabbing kitchen towels and the first aid kit and the number for the local walk-in health centre, Enjolras had completely freaked out, which had left everybody else completely stunned. This was _Enjolras_. They had only known the guy for three months but already they knew he was calm, a natural leader and an authority with a good head on his shoulders. To see him fall into a complete meltdown at the sight of the pool of blood on the kitchen floor had shocked all that were present.

It had been Courferyac who had dragged him down the hallway and back to his room, Courfeyrac who had held the trembling student as he apologised over and over again, all the while gasping for air and trying to get a grip on himself. It was Courfeyrac who rang Combeferre who was in a completely different halls of residence, begging the guy to come over because, frankly, Enjolras was scaring the hell out of him. They both stayed up into the early hours, giving Enjolras all the time he needed, until he was ready to share what had triggered the attack.

Courfeyrac listened as Enjolras told him about his friend who was stabbed and had nearly died, about how he had carried out CPR while waiting for the emergency services, wondering if they were even coming because his phone battery had died half way through the call.

Enjolras kept apologising for his weakness, but that the smell of the blood more than anything had sent him back to the horror of that experience. Courfeyrac hadn’t known what to say. He had no idea how he would have been able to cope had he been in his friend's shoes. His estimation of Enjolras had only grown, not diminished. He had let the rest into the secret out of respect for Enjolras, so he would not be continually bombarded with questions, but they had never spoken directly of it again after that.

+

“I sort of panicked, last night. I don’t even know why I brought it up. And, absolutely, if I had any kind of inkling that it might have been you who had been the friend, I swear, I would never have mentioned it.”

Courfeyrac’s brown eyes looked beseechingly at Grantaire, who could only sigh. His trembling fingers went to light a cigarette as he considered all that had been said. He shot a quick look at Jehan who returned his gaze steadily. He wished he could read the man’s mind. He wondered if Jehan had told Courfeyrac about what he had said outside the pub. Judging by what he had just been told and by Courfeyrac’s body language he guessed not.

He considered for a moment, taking another drag on his cigarette. He hated this so much. He had never, ever wanted to be defined by anything, much less be defined by this of all things. He hated the way it constantly followed him around. He hated the medication he was on, the way his body and mind were permanently scarred. It was as though he could never escape the past because it was so completely a part of him.

He had gotten away from it to a certain extent while abroad; away from the pity of others, but at the cost of being adrift and rootless. Now he had the potential to set down roots and already he was swamped and overwhelmed. Already the threat of knowledge was casting him into shadow. He wondered if he had changed at all in the past seven years, or whether a part of him was still locked in Enjolras’s bathroom, begging him, begging them all to go away.

“Ok,” he said finally, exhaling slowly, setting his shoulders as he came to a decision. “Let’s just forget about it. It was a long time ago. Best move on yeah?”

Courfeyrac shuffled in his seat at the breakfast bar. Jehan twisted his mouth, his eyes flashing first to the ceiling and then to the floor. Grantaire felt his heart sinking.

“Is this going to be awkward?” he whispered, dreading the answer. “Because I would really like to stay.”

At this, Courfeyrac looked up, his face open and sincere. The next moment, Grantaire was being swept into another bone-crushing hug. He suppressed the panic at the sudden body contact and allowed himself to be immersed in that strong grip. He felt Jehan slip his arms past his waist until all three were wrapped around each other.

“Good,” Jehan’s voice was light and airy. “Because we want you to stay, too.”

+

Saturdays were the reverse of the rest of the week. Courfeyrac had the day to himself, while Jehan had a shift at the bookshop to look forward to. In solidarity, and to help take his brain off the last twenty-four hours, Grantaire decided to go to his studio to filter through some of the CVs he had received for his prospective Personal Assistant.

He picked up the pile of post from the studio and retreated to the nearest café. Armed with a large Americano, he started to flick through them all, one by one. After thirty minutes the ‘no’ pile was threatening to take over the table.

Anyone who had been on a gap year to an African country to build a hospital or school instantly went on the no pile, swiftly followed by those who went to Thailand to ‘find’ themselves. Anyone who, in their covering letter, professed to be ‘passionate about photography’ was also filed under no, along with those who had listed a tenuous link to photography in their personal statement via a school magazine or year book.

He paused to get a refill and started shuffling through those that were left, feeling thoroughly bored with the whole exercise. All these people were sycophantic or desperate for a job or both. He wanted something different, something more.

He threw the papers down in disgust and took out his phone to fire off an email to Cosette.

_Hey,_  
 _So, you’ll never guess who I ran into last night. I know! 8 million people in London – what are the chances? Perhaps you could ring me before I chuck myself in the Thames._

He hit send before he had a chance to really think about what he had sent. Knowing that Cosette didn’t take kindly to his flippant remarks about suicide, so he quickly fired off a second email.

_Yeah, ok, I’m not actually going to throw myself in the Thames. But a phone call would be nice. A little freaked out._

He tucked his phone back in his pocket, satisfied that he was unlikely to get a response as it was about four o’clock in the morning where Cosette was right now.

His eye was suddenly caught by the word ‘fuck’ amongst one of the covering letters. He pulled it from the pile and read the whole thing through. A delightedly fiendish grin spread across his face.

_You need to give me this job because I don’t give a fuck about photography, but I sure as hell know how to organise stuff. This will be perfect because the photos will be your job. It’ll be my job to make sure you’re able to take those photos without worrying about anything else._

He didn’t even flick the page over to read the attached CV. He was already certain that he wanted to give this person, whoever they were, the job. There was a phone number at the top, so he dialled.

“The fuck?” came a sleepy response when they eventually answered the phone.

“Hi, is this Ms Thenardier?” Grantaire listened to the scuffling noises at the other end of the phone. He had obviously woken the woman up.

“Who wants to know?” the voice was tough, aggressive but with a splash of curiosity underneath. He noted the lack of oath in the sentence, where another ‘fuck’ would have sat quite happily in the question.

“You sent your CV to me, for the position of PA.” he sat back in the chair, drumming a pen against the back of his head.

“Fuck off!” Grantaire was delighted. This voice was full of fire, disgust and was totally not prepared to put up with any shit. She was perfect.

“I assure you I’m perfectly serious. Your covering letter was the best thing I’ve read in a fucking age. I want you to come work for me.” There was a pause at the other end of the phone while the woman considered. When she didn’t respond he continued.

“Come for an interview, then, if you’re not sure. But I’d like to discuss terms with you. How soon can you be at the Red Café on George Street?”

+

Her name was Eponine and she eyed him with suspicion, rejecting his offer to buy her a coffee. She looked him up and down, taking in his haphazard appearance; the torn jeans, the old band t-shirt and the nervous twitch of fingers who hadn’t grasped a cigarette in over two hours.

“So what kind of photographer are you then?” She set her jaw, eyebrow raised like Roger Moore. He grinned back at her.

“That’ll be a very small part of it.” Grantaire leant back in his chair, suddenly on comfortable territory. She snorted, closing her eyes lazily, her lip curled in derision.

“Listen, sunshine, I don’t sleep with the boss.” He couldn’t help but bark a laugh, and he was rewarded with a crooked smile in response.

“That’s definitely not a problem. You have too many X chromosomes for me,” he asserted. He saw her shoulders relax and it struck him just how much crap people had to put up with in this world to get a job.

He explained that he wouldn’t do more than four photo jobs a week due to ‘sideline projects’, but that Eponine’s role would be extensive and arduous. The upside is that she would be well paid, her salary above what a usual PA would expect to receive.

She would literally be responsible for organising his time, making sure he turned up to places. She would have to liaise with his American contacts, advise him of any requirements or deadlines that were looming. He needed at least one weekend a month kept clear so that he could visit his family.

“There is no budget,” he said and she looked rather unimpressed.

“You mean you don’t have any money?”

“No, I mean that money isn’t an issue, as long as everything runs smoothly. I’m pretty rubbish at real life. I haven’t been living real life now for about three years.” He realised that he probably sounded a bit precious but there was no point lying. If she was on board she would soon find out what she was working with, what kind of structure she was part of.

He regarded her expression. She wasn’t sold just yet but she hadn’t walked out. Something had piqued her interest. He decided to press her further. 

“How much do you know about art?” he asked, watching for her reaction. She shrugged her shoulders.

“About as much as I know about photography.” He started to list off artists; Monet, Picasso, Banksy, Michelangelo… she shrugged and nodded her way through the list with an obvious lack of interest. It apparently wasn’t her forte.

“What about R?” she shrugged again, arms folded. He sat back.

This was far too perfect. She was bright and capable with a no-shit attitude. She would definitely not have any qualms about kicking his arse as required but there was something likable, trustable about her. He didn’t want someone who was a self-professed expert, or worse an actual fan of his alter-ego. He felt he was on more than safe territory here.

She would be able to deal with R’s life quite easily because she wouldn’t see the myth, she would see one more person. He nodded, pleased.

“You’ll get your own laptop and mobile phone for office use. Can you be ready to start 10am Monday?”

Eponine stuck out her bottom lip, her face quizzical, trying to work out if this strange man was serious or not.

“10am?”

“If you think for one second I’m getting out of bed any earlier on a Monday you can forget it.” At this she finally grinned. She liked the way this guy thought. They were going to get on just fine.

He leant forward again for one last word.

“Do yourself a favour, do some research on art over the weekend, especially on R, because I promise you, you’re going to be sick to death of him by the end of next week.” He stood up, then, shrugging into his coat and getting ready to leave. She shot him another confused look.

“Why, who is he?” She, too, stood up to go.

“He’s me. But I’d be grateful if you kept that to yourself.”

+

Eponine took herself off to the local library to make use of their free computers. She couldn't help but be intrigued by her new boss, his feckless attitude to the world around him, the body language that professed not the care and the eyes that suggested he cared too much. It could have been a wind up but she suspected not. Something told her this was the real deal.

Ten minutes on google and the peace of the library was disturbed by a sudden exclamation.

"No. Fucking. Way."

She snorted in disbelief and pushed herself away from the computer, walking lightly through the library and back out on the street, grinning broadly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I've been really overwhelmed by you all. Thank you all so much for taking the time to let me know what you think, even if it is that I'm the worst person ever for putting you (and them) through all this! You make me blush :)
> 
> This is a slightly shorter chapter. My most profuse apologies if there are any typos - I'll read through it again tomorrow to triple check, but I just wanted to get it posted. It's a bit of an awkard "behind the scenes" chapter.
> 
> Jehan has obviously given Courferyrac quite the earful about the night before, even though it wasn't really his fault (although he does definitely have a big mouth). Jehan is therefore having a moment in the living room trying to sort his own head out when Grantaire finds him in his favourite inverted position on the sofa.
> 
> "Love is the Sweetest Thing" by Al Bowlly is one of my favourite tunes from the British Dance Band era - go google it! 
> 
> Chapter title stolen from the players speech, Hamlet Act 3, scene 2.


	4. I see, Lady, the gentleman is not in your books

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We all know how much Grantaire loves Enjolras's 'conversations'

Enjolras was there. He was looking right at him with blown pupils, reaching for him, holding him close. He murmured in his ear while he ran his fingers through inky curls. They moaned together, rejoicing at the harmony of their reunion; mouths clashing, hands grasping. It was all heat and sweat and delicious bliss.

With a groan of frustration, Grantaire opened his eyes, as he was dragged protesting from his dream back to consciousness. Grey light filtered through the gap in his curtains as he shifted, half-hard, beneath his duvet. His brain evidently hated him. Through one cracked eye he cast a glance around his room, most of it still made up of boxes where he hadn’t bothered to unpack the day before.

Cosette had Skyped him about two hours after his meeting with Eponine. He found, frustratingly, that talking with her hadn’t helped him in the way it usually would. Meeting Eponine had been really good for his mood. For the hour spent in that coffee shop he had been at peace with himself. More than that, his mind had been running with plans for the studio. The whole thing would need to be furnished and he was looking forward to getting started with his new partner in crime.

Cosette had brought him back to down earth with a bump. He was wrenched away from more pleasant thoughts and plans back to his Enjolras problem. She tried to be sympathetic but he didn’t really want to hear it. She narrowed her eyes at his sulky demeanour.

“Look, maybe this is for the best.” She pointedly ignored his snort and carried on. “At least now you’re done wondering about it and can start to move on.” He had made a non-committal noise and the conversation had ended shortly after.

Now it was Sunday morning, and by the sounds of it Jehan and Courfeyrac were enjoying an intimate moment down the hall. Realising that he was unlikely to be able to go back to sleep and having no wish to sit through more of the increasingly explicit sounds filtering through the flat he decided to take a walk in the hope that it would clear his head.

He pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweater, grabbed his keys and headed for the door, resisting the urge to slam it behind him. He took the stairs two at a time, threw open the street door and promptly collided with someone who was standing right outside. There was a flash of gold and red as they both went flying.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” he apologised, bending down to help the poor guy off the floor before he froze in realisation. Enjolras scowled up at him from where he was sprawled on the pavement. He gracefully pulled himself back up with as much decorum as he could muster before brushing himself down.

“It’s fine. Nothing broken.” He stared impassively at Grantaire. Grantaire wondered what the hell he was doing loitering outside Jehan and Courfeyrac’s flat at ten o’clock on a Sunday morning.

“Jehan and Courf are busy –“ Enjolras moved to interrupt him.

“That’s fine, it’s you I wanted to speak with, actually.” He was all stiffness and efficiency, as though Grantaire was some sort of client. Grantaire rubbed his left eye with his right hand, giving him a moment to put his brain in gear. He had a terrible sinking feeling in his guts.

“Coffee?” the clear blue eyes looked at him cautiously. He could tell that Enjolras might appear to be Mr Calm-and-Collected this morning, but the twitch of his irises gave him away. Grantaire shrugged his shoulders.

“Ok, sure.”

+

It wasn’t exactly a comfortable silence as they sat facing each other, Enjolras with a vanilla latte, while Grantaire stuck to his preferred Americano. The two sat hunched over the table, shoulders set, eyes wary. Grantaire wondered if he should start the ball rolling but he found he couldn’t think of anything to say. Besides which, it had been Enjolras’s idea. He had said that he wanted to talk to Grantaire so it was only fair that he begin. Enjolras cleared his throat.

“So, are we allowed to call you ‘Grantaire’ now?” He folded his hands in front of him, waiting for Grantaire to respond. Grantaire felt like he was in an interview. He sighed, wondering what kind of question that was to begin with. What did it matter what name he used these days.

“It became desirable that I should resume the use of my original name,” he said carefully. “I still hate it but it doesn’t bother me as much as it did before. Besides, the Americans have a particular way of pronouncing it which made it sufficiently unrecognisable for the most part.” He paused to take a gulp of coffee. “I’d still prefer it if you didn’t though. If that’s ok?” Enjolras didn’t respond, moving on to the next subject.

“So the Art course worked out for you. Congratulations.” It sounded almost hollow but Grantaire could hardly blame him for that. He’d had a choice and now they were both living with it.

“You could say that,” he murmured into his coffee and to his surprise Enjolras suddenly smirked.

“Oh come on, I’m not that stupid. Or blind, for that matter. I know all about your illustrious career.”

So Enjolras knew. That was… he didn’t know how he felt about that actually. But it was nice to see a vague smile on Enjolras’s face. Maybe he should just come out of the Art Cupboard, so to speak, and be done with it. These guys were a good bunch; he could probably trust them not to go running to the press.

“It got away from me, the whole identity thing” he said, trying to explain. He wanted Enjolras to know that he didn’t want the fame or the attention. He just wanted to be left in peace but apparently being famous meant giving up a part of your soul to the rest of the world. He was anxious to avoid that if he could, hence all the secrecy and the resumption of his original name. Enjolras nodded in understanding.

The conversation got a little easier after that. They talked about Enjolras’s degree, about how he had just qualified along with Courfeyrac and how it was their dream to set up a firm together. They wanted to offer their services to people who might not necessarily have the money to shell out for decent solicitors; especially as recent changes to the law regarding legal aid meant that people were no longer eligible for public funds to help towards certain things, Cases such as divorce, child contact, welfare benefits, employment, clinical negligence or housing law; all important social issues but now a lot more expensive to deal with.

Listening to him talk, Grantaire could see that underneath that calm, polished exterior, was the passionate idealist he knew from years before.

They had been there for about forty minutes when Enjolras suddenly looked at his watch and the calm, shy smile from before vanished, replaced by a serious and closed face.

+

Enjolras was enjoying himself more than he thought he would. Grantaire was quieter than he expected, more watchful. He seemed to hold himself in his chair as though waiting for Enjolras to unleash his wrath upon him. He felt slightly bad about that. He wasn’t angry anymore. He would happily admit to being blood-boilingly furious at first, but the more he thought about it the more he realised he couldn’t be angry, not for ever.

Grantaire was going to be around for a while as Courf and Jehan’s flatmate and it would be far easier if he could just get used to the idea and perhaps they could be civil to each other, which was proving to be easier than he imagined. A little too easy, a little too familiar, perhaps.

It was this thought that snapped him back to himself, that focussed his mind on why he was here in the first place.

+

“Look, there’s something I want to tell you.” The blonde took a deep, steadying breath, wrapping his hands round his coffee cup. “I wanted you to hear it from me first so there was no gossip or awkwardness or misunderstandings.”

The apprehension was back. Grantaire withdrew into himself, waiting for the fatal blow of whatever it was that was coming.

“I’ve been seeing someone. Still seeing, in fact. We’ve been together for about six months.”

_Oh_.

Grantaire frowned. He wondered what Enjolras was trying to say. So he was seeing someone – so what? That was to be expected. He wouldn’t be surprised if Enjolras had seen hundreds of someones in the past few years, what with looking like a greek god and one hell of a head on his shoulders.

“I just wanted you to know,” he said clearly, looking apprehensively at Grantaire’s frown.

Grantaire considered his response for a moment while chewing on his thumbnail. He set his mouth into a firm line and shifted in his seat to pull himself upright, levelly meeting Enjolras’s gaze.

“That’s lovely to hear. I’m pleased for you.” He barely recognised his own voice, it sounded alien to him. Enjolras’s eyes widened slightly and he tried to speak but Grantaire cut him off.

“Look, I don’t know why you think I’m here, but I would like to assure you from the very central core of my being, that my presence in this crappy little country is one hundred percent related to my Grandmother being ill.”

He wanted to walk away then, walk away from that table and Enjolras and that stupid conversation so that he could go and lick his wounds. He suddenly found his wrist caught by Enjolras’s hand who had tried to grab him as he went to leave. He recoiled from the cold touch.

“I’m sorry about your Gran.” Enjolras said calmly, and he looked like he meant it too. Grantaire did not want to talk about this, not with him. He didn’t want to talk about the cancer, or the chemotherapy, or the uncertainty of it all because he might just break down right here in this café and he did not want that.

“We keep in touch, you know. Your Gran and I.” No, he did not know. He felt slightly nauseous, swaying on the spot until he was forced to sit back down in his chair. He was also painfully aware of the present tense of that sentence.

“I used to go up every couple of months or so, help your Granddad keep the garden under control, have some Sunday dinner. They invited me.” He looked across at Grantaire, eyes begging to be understood.

Grantaire felt empty, like he didn’t know the world anymore. His Grandparents had never told him any of this. Enjolras looked down, fiddling with his fingers.

“They were really great when my parents decided to give their marriage another go and fucked off to Australia.” Grantaire flinched at the harsh tone. Enjolras hardly ever swore and it was strange to hear the words coming from his lips.

“I haven’t been up there for a while, though. I guess I should give them a ring or something.” Grantaire swallowed.

“I should go,” he said at last, eyes seeking out the door and mentally sending strict instructions to his legs to please work for long enough to get him back to the flat where he would be more than happy to collapse on his bed and never move again.

“One other thing,” Enjolras interrupted, this time standing too, blocking Grantaire’s escape route whilst digging around in his bag. After a moment he found what he was looking for and held it out to the other man. Grantaire eyed it doubtfully.

“It’s yours. I’m afraid it’s not quite in the condition that you left it in, but I may have read it once or twice.” He continued to proffer the package so Grantaire had no choice but to take it.

Then Enjolras was gone, out of the café without a goodbye or a backward glance, leaving Grantaire with a spinning head.

He opened up the package and let out a pained sigh.

_Harry Potter et la Coupe de Feu_

+

Courfeyrac tiptoed past where Grantaire was sitting on the sofa, his chin resting on his hands, his eyes focussed on a book on the coffee table. He joined Jehan in the kitchen where he was chopping onions for dinner.

“Is he ok?” he whispered, gesturing his head towards the sofa.

“No,” Jehan’s answer was blunt and honest as moved to get the garlic crusher.

Jehan hadn’t initially noticed Grantaire when he’d walked through the living room towards the kitchen. As the lights were off he had assumed the room was empty. His mind had been occupied with the prospect of washing up and preparing dinner, so when he had turned around to see Grantaire sitting silently on the sofa in the semi-darkness it had made him jump.

He’d made his way back over to his flatmate, concerned at the terribly empty look on his face. He gently rested a hand on the man’s shoulder but the only movement he got in response was a slow blink of the eyelids.

“’Taire? What is it?” Grantaire sighed very slowly.

“He said he wanted to give it back to me,” he croaked, his voice hoarse. Jehan looked over to the book on the table. It appeared to be a rather battered French edition of a Harry Potter book. He looked back at Grantaire in confusion, but no further explanation was forthcoming. Sensing that the man needed time, Jehan returned to the kitchen where he could covertly keep an eye on him.

“He’s been staring at that book now for at least the last twenty minutes.” Jehan took his suppressed frustration out on the defenceless garlic before chucking it in the pan with the onions. He started to grate some root ginger.

“What is it?” Courfeyrac enquired, reaching to the cupboard to pull out a tin of coconut milk. He reached round Jehan for the drawer where the tin opener lived, the pair of them circling each other round the kitchen with ease.

“I don’t know, but Enjolras gave it to him.” Jehan stopped grating. Courfeyrac pulled his mouth together to murmur a soft “Oh”.

“Yup.”

Just then Grantaire got off the sofa and in three strides he was in his room, closing the door softly behind him.

+

Grantaire was having a bad day. He really wanted a drink but he just didn’t have the energy to leave his room and brave the outside world. He had arrived back at the flat, chucked the book on the coffee table and grabbed a last beer from the fridge before returning to his room. At some point he had fallen asleep.

When he had woken, disorientated, sometime in the afternoon the flat had been empty. He intended to make a sandwich in the kitchen but the sight of the book had stopped him in his tracks, which is where Jehan found him some time later.

He was numb and angry and distraught and overwhelmed all at once. Enjolras’s voice filled his head, refusing to leave him alone. And that book, that bloody book.

He’d never had the chance to read it. He ran his fingers lightly over the cover. He could tell from the spine that it had been thoroughly read by someone. By Enjolras.

What the fuck was he supposed to do with this? Why had Enjolras kept it? He didn’t understand this person he had once known so well. Having said that, he barely understood or recognised himself right now.

+

Jehan woke him on Monday and pretty much fed him, watered him and got him to take his meds. It was Jehan’s day off, so he offered to help Grantaire move some boxes down to the studio so that he and Eponine would have something to work with. Grantaire suspected Jehan just wanted to catch a glimpse of the studio itself.

Credit to Eponine, she was on time and didn’t comment on his dishevelled appearance. She volunteered the use of her car to speed up the process of moving boxes from flat to studio. He sat in the back of the car, listening to Jehan and Eponine chatter easily.

He became aware that they were talking about his work. Evidently Eponine had done some research. Jehan was delighted to have an ally who was in on the secret. He let them talk on, slowly allowing the warmth of their feelings to pierce through his own crusty armour.

“So,” Eponine turned her attention to the silent man. “I’m Alfred to your Batman, have I got that right?” He couldn’t help but smile.

“Something like that, but hopefully in a quieter line of work” She grinned broadly as she dumped another box in the room.

They decided to retire to a gastropub for a spot of lunch and to make some plans. Already he was feeling a bit more human and he managed to recapture some of the excitement from Saturday.

He took the opportunity to explain to Eponine that he would be working and advertising under the name Grantaire, that preferably the people who came to him for his photography would have no idea who they were really dealing with. On top of that, he would also continue to provide pieces for JVJ.

“Ah, is this where the American Agent comes in?” Eponine cut in, eager to show she had been paying attention. Jehan was pleased to see Grantaire form a grin on his face in response.

“She’s not my agent,” he corrected gently, “and she’ll get royally pissed off if you call her that.” Eponine shrugged to indicate that she didn’t really care but would probably take that information on board.

Suddenly Jehan let out an excited squeak. “You know what we should do?” he said, touching Eponine on the arm, an intimate, conspiratorial gesture that worried Grantaire greatly.

“We should go shopping for the studio.”

Grantaire closed his eyes, groaning as Eponine’s face lit up.

“Well,” she said, catching on quickly, “you need to have a decent reception area. I’ll need a work station, and your clients will want to be comfortable-”

“Oh my god!” Jehan interjected, his eyes shining like stars. “A chaise-longue would be perfect.”

Grantaire sat back in his chair, deciding that it would be far easier just to let these two get on with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's always lovely to hear from people! I know some of you are going to be quite cross with me right now but please bear with me, there's a long journey to be made.
> 
> Chapter title stolen from Much Ado About Nothing (Act 1 Scene 1) A messanger talking to Beatrice about Benedick


	5. It Is Not For Us To End Such Great Disputes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What do these two do best?  
> No, apart from that...

Everything was going suspiciously well. Grantaire had been living with Courf and Jehan for just over a month and after the drama of the first few days, things had settled into a calmer routine. Grantaire had even been persuaded to prepare for them his famous goulash that he had been taught by Izsak, a boy with grey eyes and fantastic shoulders, during his time in Szigetszentmiklós.

The studio had been open for about two weeks. Eponine had asked one of her friends to sort out a website and already bookings were starting to trickle in. She was absolutely brilliant at her job. He was thrilled, if also slightly concerned, at how she could flip between swearing like a sailor and charming the pants off any customers she came into contact with.

Yesterday, she had phoned him cackling with delight because three more people wanted a meeting with a view to him doing their wedding. Grantaire’s wedding portfolio was something of a masterpiece that he was slightly embarrassed about.

He had done quite a few weddings during his last year at university, when he was still sure he needed a back up plan because the deal with JVJ was sure to go to shit at any moment. There was a fair amount of money in Connecticut, New Hampshire and New Jersey and he was happy to travel. The Society gossips soon made sure that word spread about the charming young art student who was able to take such lovely photographs – and for such a reasonable price! They all loved his English accent and the way he would turn up in a waist coat and fob watch. They thought he was adorable. He didn’t think much of them at all.

Now, back in London, he was grateful for those weddings because prospective clients seemed to take one look at the photos on his website, the good light, the soft contrasts and the beauty of the New Hampshire setting, and they were literally begging Eponine to book them in.

Eponine and Jehan had done a great job on his studio, decorating and furnishing it into an elegant and intimate space in which people could feel comfortable, although he had insisted that the second floor space was his and must not be touched under any circumstances. He also drew the line at red velvet curtains. Jehan had begged and pouted but he stood firm. There was a line on the bathroom wall dedicated to the episode that made Grantaire smile every time he took a shower.

They had been to one of Jehan’s poetry readings at his book shop which Grantaire had enjoyed more than he thought he would. Jehan had an excellent voice that projected and enunciated beautifully. He really came alive on the stage. Grantaire was also rather aware of the hungry way Courfeyrac watched the poet. On the way home he kindly remembered that, oh dear, he had some work in his studio that he simply must get done tonight or Cosette would eat him alive. He strolled off in that direction, leaving Courf practically carrying Jehan back to the flat.

R’s work had been something of a different matter. For the first week he had suffered a crippling amount of block, hardly able to pick up a pencil much less anything else. He had tried to draw Jehan in charcoal but he got far too frustrated with it and gave it up as a bad job. He found his eye being drawn to his paint stash, particularly the reds and yellows and blacks.

In the end he asked Eponine to arrange an afternoon for him in one of the abandoned tube stations under London. He figured some time alone in the dark with the dust and brick was just what he needed. She sent him an email saying that he had an appointment to go round the Charing Cross Jubilee line platforms which had closed in 1999.

He hadn’t made the connection at all until he found himself standing in front of Nelson’s Column surrounded by tourists all happily taking photographs, posing in front of lions and fountains. It was only October so he could at least be grateful for the absence of the tree.

Why couldn’t the tube station that served Trafalgar Square be called ‘Trafalgar Square’?

The Underground staff were very accommodating. His cover story was that he was scouting for possible film locations and needed to take some shots for context. The station was used for this sort of thing all the time so the staff were happy to just let him get on with it.

It was a great location; very empty and yet every so often there was a rush of air to indicate a distant train travelling elsewhere. He was especially fascinated by the black Underground mice that scurried about on the tracks. He spent nearly two hours down there, two hours where he wasn’t thinking about the last time he had been in Trafalgar Square.

He was sorting through the photographs, working out which, if any, he would be able to translate into something more when Jehan stuck his head round the door, inviting him to the pub.

To turn down such a generous offer, well that would be just rude.

+

Enjolras was in a new form of purgatory. He couldn’t get that frustrating man out of his head and it was driving him mad. He had hoped that having a coffee and clearing the air would make him feel better but in the weeks that followed he found that it had made him feel quite the opposite. Instead of feeling a release he felt yet more tension, a pulling together rather than a letting go.

Marius interrupted his thoughts, bringing his attention back to the papers in front of him. They were nearly done at work; everything was pretty much in place for Court tomorrow.

“Hey, Courf and Bahorel are in the pub. I’m heading there now. Want to come?”

Enjolras’s first instinct was to say no, but he hadn’t seen his friends outside of work in ages.

“Feuilly and that new guy should be there too.” Marius supplied, helpfully. Enjolras's head shot up.

“Who, Grantaire?”

Poor Marius. He hadn’t been able to make the last gathering in the pub, the infamous event that no one had dared talk about since, and so he was blissfully unaware of who Grantaire was to Enjolras.

Enjolras looked at the clock. He reckoned he probably had about two hours before he would need to be home.

“Sure, why not.” He stood to shrug his coat on, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Marius’s face lit up with a surprised and delighted smile. He fired off a text to let Courf know they were on the way.

+

Bahorel nearly broke three of Grantaire’s ribs by crushing him into a hug. The man was thrilled to see him, barking with comradely laughter and Grantaire couldn’t help but return the infectious grin. Bahorel insisted on buying the first round and then Grantaire returned the favour. They talked about boxing and gym and swapped numbers so that they could arrange to spar sometime.

Grantaire sized Bahorel up. He didn’t think he would mind being beaten to a pulp by this guy but Grantaire was also quite fast, faster than he looked. There was always the chance he could take him. Not in the first fight, but if he held back his own skills whilst taking note of the opposition; he reckoned it might be possible. It would be fun finding out.

Grantaire was also surprised to see Combeferre there. He kept a respectful distance as he was keenly aware of the way Combeferre’s eyes scrutinised him through his glasses, even though he was involved in a conversation with Feuilly about the teaching of Italian and Polish in schools as well as French and German. Grantaire focussed his own attention on Jehan and Bahorel.

Courfeyrac’s phone beeped and he let out a low whistle, catching everyone’s attention.

“Marius is on his way. And he’s bringing Enjolras.” Grantaire was so busy masking his own emotions that he missed the mild surprise on Bahorel and Feuilly’s faces.

Courfeyrac, Marius, Enjolras and Bahorel all worked at the same firm, although Bahorel was yet to finish his training. They all knew that Enjolras agreeing to accompany Marius anywhere, much less the pub, was rather, well, bizarre.

While the others muttered their surprise at each other, Grantaire grabbed Jehan and they wondered into the small patio area at the back for a smoke. Jehan watched him for a moment, taking in his posture, if his hands shook at all while he lit his cigarette. He pursed his lips.

“You want to head home?” he asked, his head on one side. Grantaire shook his head to indicate no, his curls flying in the autumn breeze. He wasn’t feeling too bad and there were plenty of people about. He had as much right to be in the pub with his friends as Enjolras did.

“It’ll be fine,” he said. He didn’t say ‘I’ll be fine’ because that would be a lie. Something in the way Jehan looked at him made him realise he wasn’t fooling anyone.

Once they had finished, they scurried back into the warm pub to find the other two had arrived. Grantaire hadn’t met Courfeyrac’s other colleague yet and was rather surprised with what he saw. This sweet, thin young man with freckles looked far too nice to be a solicitor. He would surely be eaten alive in a Court room.

He sank into his chair just as Courfeyrac went off to buy another round. He was working up towards something neutral to say when Enjolras turned to him, his nose all wrinkled and a familiar glint of disapproval in his eye. It shouldn’t have sent a bolt of lightning through his chest but it did.

“Have you been smoking?” Enjolras’s voice was thick with disgust. Grantaire just stared at him. After a pause that probably went on a beat too long, he let out a stutter of a laugh.

“Oh my god, it is actually eight years ago!” Grantaire drawled sarcastically. Colour rose in Enjolras’s cheeks while Grantaire turned his back to him to talk to Jehan. He didn’t see everyone else at the table subtly roll their eyes.

Courf came back from the bar and popped another pint in front of him which he accepted with glee, clinking glasses with his fellow drinkers. Enjolras fiddled with the straw in his nearly empty Lime and Soda.

“Should you be drinking that much in your condition?”

Bahorel nearly spat out his beer while Grantaire turned very slowly to face the blonde man sitting down the table, giving him the full force of his very best ‘what the fuck’ look.

“I’m not fucking pregnant, Enjolras”

By now everyone else had stopped talking to watch them. Grantaire could feel the heat in his cheeks but he could not look away while Enjolras stared at him like that, glared at him like that. It was that marvellous fixed steely look that he had first fallen for. _Oh he was in so much trouble_.

“I’m simply saying that you’ve obviously already had a drink and really…” Grantaire put the beer glass down with a slight thump without actually spilling any of its contents, before raising his hand to interrupt.

“Yes, please do continue to make my drinking into an issue. I’m sure it’s just what I want to talk about and what everyone else wants to hear.”

“Well excuse me for giving a damn,” spat Enjolras, his eyes darkening and his mouth fixing into a firm line.

Bahorel decided enough was enough.

“Oi! Play nicely, kids, or I’ll put you in time-out!” he joked, trying to lighten the atmosphere. Enjolras got up and marched over to the bar. A moment later, Grantaire made a noise that sounded suspiciously like “oh fuck this” and asked if anyone wanted a round of pool. Feuilly grinned and got up to join him.

Courfeyrac turned to Combeferre.

“Why would Enjolras be worried about Grantaire’s drinking habits? I know you know.” He looked pointedly at the teacher. He felt Jehan shift uncomfortably beside him.

“He is on a lot of medication,” Jehan whispered quietly, hoping that it wasn’t too much of a betrayal. Surely Courfeyrac must have seen all the boxes in Grantaire’s kitchen cupboard. Combeferre considered a moment, checking quickly that Enjolras was still out of earshot at the bar.

“I understand that he had a kidney removed as part of the… incident.”

All of them looked over to where Grantaire was dusting his cue with chalk, chatting amiably with Feuilly. Bahorel made a funny snorting noise and took a gulp of his drink.

“You’re telling me those two were in a relationship. How the fuck did either one of them survive?”

Marius made a slight choking noise at Bahorel’s comment, but there was a general murmur of agreement from everyone else. They hadn’t even been in the same room for more than five minutes and already there had been a row. Combeferre cleared his throat.

“Judging by the evidence, I’d say they didn’t,” he answered, dryly.

+

Feuilly let Grantaire break; then he took a shot, potted a red, took another shot and finally stood back while the other guy started to aim for yellows.

“So,” he started, his mouth twisting into a fiendish grin. “Would I be right in saying I’m not the only person playing pool with more than a passing interest in art?”

Grantaire allowed his eyes to flick up to Feuilly briefly before returning to line up his shot. He potted a yellow in the centre pocket. Striding round to find another likely yellow, he considered his options.

He had been thinking about this for a while, telling some of the people around him who he was. Now that he actually found himself within a stable group of people he didn’t relish the thought of sneaking around behind their backs. He hated dishonesty in any form. He bent down, took his shot which bounced off two sides, before standing again.

“Did Jehan tell you or did you guess?” Feuilly grinned broadly. He chuckled merrily which was a good sound.

“I vaguely recognised you. There aren’t that many photos of you out there, and certainly none of you identified as ‘him’ but if you look at a lot of exhibition photos, the ones where groups of people are standing around looking at art, you tend to crop up an awful lot.” He took a shot but missed.

“Then Courf introduced you, and everyone loves a good pun.” He winked and Grantaire couldn’t help but smile.

“The nail in the coffin of my suspicions, I’m afraid, was Enjolras.” This was sufficient to put Grantaire off his shot, as the yellow reverberated around the edge of the pocket without actually going in. He stood up to raise a quizzical eyebrow at his opponent.

“He has some of your work on his wall. I don’t recognise which collection it’s from so I imagine it’s early.” Grantaire closed his eyes. He had a sneaking suspicion he knew exactly which piece of work Feuilly was referring to.

“He got me into your work in the first place,” the other man continued, smiling. “We went all the way to Leeds for an exhibit – your _Breakout_ series I think it was.”

“Fuck, that is early,” Grantaire’s head was swimming. Enjolras had gone to Leeds to see his work. He pushed that thought right out of his mind, focussing on the man in front of him.

“But yeah, I really should go shout at the guy because he never said he fucking knew you!”

Grantaire saw a quick flash in Feuilly’s expression as the man rethought what he’d just said. The redhead returned his attention to the table, sparing Grantaire’s blush and the awkward silence.

“At least now I know how he afforded one of your sketches. I guess you must have drawn loads for him…” Feuilly trailed off, treading lightly, giving Grantaire the opportunity to shrug his shoulders and change the topic. Grantaire lined up his next shot.

“Just the one,” he answered, before swearing viciously as his yellow bounced off the side, careered into the black which then went spinning dangerously near a pocket.

“I can draw something for you sometime, if you want?” he offered. Feuilly’s eyebrows shot up. Grantaire shrugged. “Just, give me a subject and I’ll have a bash.”

Feuilly looked completely shocked.

“I’ll, er, have a think.” He rubbed the back of his neck with a rough hand.

“You could perhaps do the same for me?” Grantaire continued. “I need some decent art in the Studio, and I daren’t use any of mine. Perhaps I could commission you.”

They both grinned at each other. Two shots later, Feuilly had won the game.

+

Enjolras and Combeferre had gone by the time they returned to their friends. Conversation flowed easily, though Jehan noticed that Grantaire switched to coke.

Grantaire finally told the others about his work in America, which resulted in Courfeyrac punching him genially in the arm in protest at being one of the last to know.

“But please, guys, keep it to yourselves, yeah?” he pleaded, aware that he was in a crowded London pub. They all solemnly promised to keep the secret and chatter turned to other things.

Bahorel and Feuilly were listening to Grantaire talk about his time in Eastern Europe, roaring with laughter as he related how he could ask for a beer in twelve different languages, while Marius, Jehan and Courfeyrac talked about an upcoming play Jehan wanted to see.

The group decided to call it a night at nine o’clock as it was technically a work night. Courf shuffled off to bed as soon as they got home as he was the only one with an early start. Grantaire and Jehan retired to the balcony for a couple more smokes, wrapped up in jumpers and blankets to keep the chill out.

Grantaire was quiet, mulling a few things over in his mind. Jehan waited, knowing that his friend was probably building up to something.

“When Enjolras told me he had a boyfriend, was he, like, lying or something?” Grantaire’s brow was furrowed but his eyes were sharp. He looked more confused than anything. Jehan exhaled, watching the smoke and his breath spiral in the cold air.

“He told you about Patrick?” he asked, neatly using a second question to avoid answering the first. Grantaire raised his eyebrows.

“Oh so he does exist then,” he said, flicking his ash. Jehan let out a strange laugh.

“Heh, I can see why you’d say that. I myself have barely met him.” He reached forward to stub out his cigarette before continuing. “He’s not one of us.”

Jehan shot a look at Grantaire who seemed to be lost in thought, staring up at the sky where the light pollution reflected an orange glow off the clouds.

“That’s why it was so nice to see him this evening.” Jehan made sure to keep his voice casual. “He doesn’t usually come out to the pub after work.”

Grantaire’s stomach swooped. A treacherous and ridiculous part of his brain wondered if he’d had anything to do with Enjolras’s decision to show up, before hastily filing that thought under D for Don’t Be So Fucking Stupid.

Obviously Enjolras didn’t know he was going to be at the pub. If anything, he was more likely to stay away.

However, he was still thinking about that marvellous glare as he bid his goodnight to Jehan and slid into his own bed. It made him feel so good in a really _really_ bad way to have that attention fixed back on him once again. Because which ever way you looked at it, Enjolras never glared at anything he didn’t care about.

+

Grantaire checked the address again before looking up at the building in front of him. He wasn’t sure what he expected for a Law firm; he’d had images of a Georgian style building that had been converted into offices, perhaps with a brass plate set in the wall. This was a modern office block, with a turn-style door that led into a large atrium with reception desk. Evidently the building housed more than one company.

The security guard pointed him in the direction of the Firm’s offices and he shuffled off towards the appropriate floor. That was as far as he got.

The receptionist who buzzed him in eyed him suspiciously. Grantaire turned on his most charming smile.

“Is Courfeyrac around?” he asked, leaning on the desk, eyeing up the free pens. The man behind the desk cast him a lofty glare in response.

“Do you have an appointment?” he enquired, witheringly. It struck Grantaire that this guy would get on like a house on fire with Enjolras; in fact, they probably did.

“I’m his flatmate, actually.” He said smugly. The other man changed his withering glare into a withering smile.

“I happen to have met his flatmate, and you are definitely not him.” He answered firmly. Grantaire frowned. He was about to argue when he spotted a familiar blonde head using a photocopier in the hallway behind the reception desk.

“Hey, Enjolras!” he shouted, making the receptionist and the man in question jump. “Can you convince this good gentleman that I’m not a charlatan and that I am, in fact, who I say I am?”

“And who is that?” he replied coolly, glaring at the artist in front of him. Grantaire was wearing paint-spattered jeans and an old band t-shirt. He stuck out like a sore thumb in the more formal office environment.

“Courf’s new flatmate!” he grinned. Enjolras closed his eyes slowly, probably counting to ten, before sighing and marching over. He grabbed Grantaire by the elbow and dragged him away from the reception desk, apologising to “Toby” for the inconvenience. “Toby” protruded his lower lip slightly, nodding his head and turning back to his work.

Enjolras pushed Grantaire into an empty office.

“Look, you can’t just turn up here and start harassing the staff. Especially not when you look like that!” he hissed, eyes and nostrils flaring. Grantaire felt like his skin was burning where Enjolras had grabbed hold of him. He was pleased that when he started to speak his voice came out level.

“I assure you I am here for completely legitimate purposes.” He rooted around in his bag before producing a lunch box.

“Someone forgot their lunch and Jehan doesn’t want his little darling to starve to death.” Enjolras lowered his eyes and took a step back as his temper cooled.

“On that subject,” Grantaire continued, his tone changing suddenly, “you’re looking very pale.”

Enjolras looked awful, quite honestly. Grantaire took the opportunity to really look at the man for the first time in ages. Under the harsh office lighting the shadows under his eyes were clear, as well as the pinched, dehydrated look of his luminescent skin. He held himself very stiffly, his arms by his sides.

“I’m just tired,” he said quietly, before suddenly looking up to meet Grantaire’s eyes. “Some of us have to work for a living.”

 _Ouch_.

Grantaire wondered if this Patrick fellow realised that Enjolras needed to be reminded to eat every so often, that when he became focussed on something he usually stuck with it to the bitter end, even if that meant forgoing meals and bathroom breaks.

“I can grab you a sandwich or something if you need?” he offered, making sure his voice was soft yet casual. Enjolras frowned.

“I’m fine,” he snapped.

 _Ok then, fine it is_.

+

When Jehan got home from work, Grantaire presented him with a mug of tea, before sitting him down on the sofa and asking him if he had noticed anything different about Enjolras.

He had been thinking about it all afternoon, how pale and tired he seemed. There was something about it all that bothered him without quite knowing what it was. He appreciated that he had barely seen the guy in recent years and it may be that this was the new normal, which is why he wanted to pick Jehan’s brains about it.

Jehan sipped his tea while he considered his answer. He supposed that Enjolras had been a bit more distant in recent months but then it had been a very tough time for everyone. There had been a lot of pressure with the run up to qualification. Bahorel hadn’t managed to pass all his units and had needed a few retakes so was six months behind everyone else.

Enjolras had always taken his work extremely seriously, even at University but then Combeferre or Courfeyrac would usually ensure that he ate something.

“If you are worried,” he said carefully, “you should speak to Combeferre. He would know.”

Grantaire thought about this as he finished his tea. He can’t quite see himself talking to Combeferre about Enjolras. He got the distinct impression that, while the guy didn’t actually dislike him, he didn’t exactly like him either.

He felt a bit better for his talk with Jehan. Maybe the poet was right, it was probably the stress of work. Enjolras always had worked too hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Szigetszentmiklós is in Hungary.
> 
> I worked in London for three years. If I had £1 for every tourist who asked me where Buckingham Palace station or Trafalgar Square station was I could retire a happy lady.
> 
> The black mice on the Underground are a rare species that have evolved to live in that environment. If you are ever lucky enough to spot one, they're rather cute.
> 
> Chapter title is taken from Virgil's 'Eclogues' - Book III, line 108


	6. Where Am I? Under The Rising Of The Sun Or Beneath The Wheeling Course Of The Frozen Bear?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Look, you want to fight? Fine. But I want to know what the hell I’m getting into and you will definitely be signing a disclaimer so that when your sorry arse gets taken off to hospital you don’t sue me."
> 
> There's fighting, green waistcoats and Monty Python.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw mention of scars

Grantaire shifted awkwardly in his seat while the doctor smiled over at him. It wasn’t that he hated doctors, exactly; he just found them uncomfortable to be around.

This was the latest in a long line of doctors and he knew the drill by now. For the first six months they wanted to see him every month “to see how he was getting on”. After that, they would get bored and it would drop down to every three months, sometimes six months depending on the personality clash.

He could already tell that this lady would probably insist on seeing him every month for at least another three appointments before maybe considering dropping him down to three monthly visits. She was ridiculously thorough, insisting on having him recite his entire daily routine, going through each pill, his opinion of them, how he thought they might be helping him.

He had to repress his sincere desire to tell her the truth, that he couldn’t fucking tell what tablet was doing which and as long as he continued to get out of bed most days then he didn’t rightly care.

After another five minutes of torture she had renewed his prescriptions and he had made another appointment for next month.

Back out in the real world, he fired off a text to Bahorel, confirming their agreement to meet at the gym for a fight. It was something he had been looking forward to, anticipating the chance to test his muscles and instincts. He had been out of the loop for a while but hopefully not too long.

Bahorel was already in the changing room when he arrived. He greeted him warmly but the other guy seemed a bit off, almost awkward. Bahorel looking awkward was a sight to behold.

“Is everything all right?” Grantaire asked, shoving his bag into a locker. Bahorel shifted uneasily.

“Look, don’t get all pissed off with me, ok?” Grantaire frowned suspiciously. Bahorel took a deep breath.

“I know about your… condition.” Grantaire’s frown changed from suspicious to icy. He turned on his heel, throwing his arms to the heavens and gave a cry of “Oh my GOD!” causing a number of people in the changing room to turn around.

“You know fuck all about it,” Grantaire spat, turning back to face the bigger guy. Bahorel glared back at him.

“I know that if I punch you in just wrong place I could cause some serious fucking damage and that people with one kidney are actively told to avoid contact sports” he retaliated.

“I know what my body can do!” Grantaire insisted. This had never stopped him before and it damn well wasn’t going to stop him now.

“Who told you, anyway – as if I don’t know,” he snorted, turning back to his locker.

“Enjolras didn’t tell me anything. It was Combeferre.” This prompted another snort from Grantaire and he slammed the locker door shut, looking challengingly at Bahorel who sighed.

“Look, you want to fight? Fine. But I want to know what the hell I’m getting into and you will definitely be signing a disclaimer so that when your sorry arse gets taken off to hospital you don’t sue me. Deal?”

Grantaire considered for a moment before huffing in exasperation. He started to shuck off his shirt. He stood before Bahorel, naked to the waist, his anger overtaking any other emotion he might have felt.

“As you can see, the surgeons did a pretty fine job of putting me back together.” Bahorel cast an eye over the straight lines of the surgeon’s knife, as well as the smaller oval scar of a stab wound. Grantaire wasn’t looking at him anymore.

“This side is fine,” he said, gesturing to the mess of scar tissue on his left side. “You’ll work out pretty quickly that I already favour my right side defensively, but I would appreciate it if you didn’t knacker my last kidney. You’d be lousy to take a shot there anyway, regardless of how many of the damn things I have or haven’t got.”

Bahorel nodded. He held out his hand in a reconciliatory gesture. After a beat, Grantaire took it. He pulled his t-shirt back on and they made their way out into the gym.

+

Grantaire had enjoyed his afternoon immensely. Once Bahorel had relaxed and stopped treating him like a piece of glass that might fracture at any moment, they had experienced a decent session and he had revelled in having all his senses running at maximum. He felt a thrill at how easily his muscles seemed to remember what they were doing.

He got a few good hits in, despite trying to hold himself back so that he could work out Bahorel’s preferred moves and defensive weaknesses. On the third fight he had managed to floor the guy, which caused him to swear profoundly but good naturedly. It had been a good match.

After a quick shower and a promise to do it again sometime, he stepped back outside into the October sunshine and wondered down the road in the direction of home.

The flat was empty as both his flatmates were at work. He took advantage of the quiet by setting up his laptop in the living room so that he could process photos while watching TV. He had three emails in his inbox. One was from Eponine, reminding him about an appointment with a client the following day, one was spam and the other one was from Cosette. It contained six words and six exclamation marks.

GUESS WHO IS COMING TO LONDON!!!!!

+

Two weeks later, Grantaire found himself sitting in the foyer of the Millennium Hotel in Knightsbridge. It was a suitably ostentatious location for his friend though personally he couldn’t see the attraction. He preferred more intimate hotels.

Cosette was running a little late and had promised she would be down momentarily. He was contented to wait, mostly because he had come straight from the studio and as a result was thoroughly enjoying the way the concierge was frowning at his paint-spattered clothes and scruffy appearance. He was sketching her frowning at him.

He looked up suddenly to see one of the younger reception ladies heading his way.

“Can I get you a tea or anything?” she asked softly, giving him a shy smile. He grinned back at her broadly.

“Coffee would be awesome, cheers” he returned. She disappeared and was back not much later with a coffee and some cream and sugar. As he gulped it down, she glanced at his sketch and unsuccessfully suppressed a giggle.

Just then, Cosette stepped out of the lift, looking like a dream in a pale blue dress. She called over to him exuberantly and he dropped the sketch and pencil down so that he could wrap her in a warm hug. It had been too long.

“Oh, my dear, you are looking well,” she enthused. “London is obviously agreeing with you.” Her eye fell on the sketch.

“Not your usual subject,” she commented, a wicked gleam in her eye.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he pretended to ponder, his finger on his chin. “They say I have a knack for capturing the spirit of empty things.”

They both snorted. He suddenly remembered the lady with the coffee. He picked up the sketch and jogged over to her.

“What’s your name?” he asked, eyes gleaming. Cosette joined him at the desk, eyes alight with amusement. The young receptionist blushed while the concierge tried to mask her glare.

“Rachel,” she responded, her eyes darting nervously towards her manager. Grantaire gently extracted the sketch from the sketch book, turned it over and started to write on the back.

_I hereby authorise that this is a genuine sketch of mine, drawn in the lobby of the Millennium Hotel, London, and given to the lovely Rachel who so kindly supplied me with coffee._

_R_

He handed it over. She stared at him like he was completely mad. Cosette stifled a giggle.

“Go wait outside,” she laughed, giving him a friendly shove. He obliged, heading towards the door. Cosette turned back to Rachel.

“That was a very expensive cup of coffee,” she advised with a twinkle in her eye. “Google the signature. I think you’ll find that little drawing there is worth around £2000.”

Rachel made a strange choking noise and the concierge who had blatantly been eavesdropping looked like she was about to faint. Tossing her hair and shooting a final grin at Rachel, she followed Grantaire outside.

He advised her that obviously he would need to pop home to change before they went out to dinner. They hopped into taxi, chatting easily as London passed by their window.

Unfortunately, both Courfeyrac and Jehan were at home which meant that he had no choice but to leave Cosette in their hands while he went to get changed. Needless to say they got on like a house on fire and were already swapping embarrassing stories about him before his bedroom door had shut.

When he emerged, wearing black suit trousers, a crisp white shirt and bottle green waist coat, he was treated to wolf whistles and cat calls from his audience. He had managed to tame his curls as best he could so that he looked a lot less wild, even managing to edge towards refined. He offered his arm to Cosette who beamed as she accepted, blowing a kiss to Jehan and telling Courfeyrac not to wait up.

They talked lightly of business matters over dinner; how the investments were going, how pleased JVJ was with his latest venture, and a whisper of future plans for any work he might have produced while in London.

After a glass of wine or so, just before the dessert course, talk turned to less formal subjects.

“How are things going with you and Enjolras?” Cosette enquired, looking far too innocent for her own good. Grantaire frowned.

“They’re not,” he pouted, not sure if he wanted to talk about this in a crowded restaurant. “There is no me and Enjolras. He has a boyfriend for a start.”

Cosette shrugged her shoulders, smiling mildly, knowing better than to try and sympathise with the man before her. She knew he hated pity. Grantaire looked as though he was about to run his hands through his hair before remembering where he was and lowering them down to the table where he instead began to fiddle with this fingers.

“It’s weird. Whenever we’re in the same room he keeps picking at me, like I’m an itch, like he can’t help himself.” Cosette smiled.

“And I suppose you do nothing to encourage this itch at all,” she commented, taking another sip of wine. Grantaire crooked a guilty grin. She knew he could be a proper wind up merchant if the mood possessed him.

“What about the others then. You seem to have made a lot of friends. I’ve never known you to have so many people in your life.” Grantaire conceded the point with a tilt of his head. In truth, he had never been one for trusting people but there was something different about these friends.

Bahorel’s straightforward loyalty, Feuilly’s easy grin, Jehan’s gentle smoke-filled kisses, Courfeyrac’s bellow of laughter; they were all people he could trust, had already trusted.

She downed the rest of her wine.

“You should introduce me to them,” she said suddenly, leaning forward as though ready to go at that moment. He raised his eyebrows.

“You want me to throw you to the lions?” he grinned at her, a look that she matched easily.

“Oh come, now, they can’t be any worse than you.” She had a point there. With a groan he wrestled his phone from his pocket to text Courfeyrac to find out where people were this evening.

+

He felt slightly awkward as they pulled up outside the pub, but Cosette stepped purposefully out of the taxi, smiling at the driver and holding out her hand for her friend. She squeezed it reassuringly as he led her inside.

Everyone was there. Bahorel spotted him first, roaring with laughter at his get up, bounding over to pick him up and twirl in him round in an effort to embarrass him. When he finally convinced the man to let him down, Grantaire introduced Cosette to everyone.

Joly & Bossuet waved shyly from their corner, Feuilly shook her hand, as did Combeferre although a touch more firmly. Jehan came to embrace her as an old friend and Courfeyrac got up to buy her a drink. Marius could barely stutter out a greeting as he gaped at her like a goldfish. Eponine raised a challenging eyebrow at her American counterpart. They had spoken plenty of times and were old comrades. They hi-fived each other amicably, happy to finally meet.

Cosette cast a glance round the table and couldn’t help but spot that Enjolras’s attention was obviously elsewhere. Enjolras was outright staring at Grantaire, much to her satisfaction.

Grantaire had sat down next to Feuilly and was engrossed in conversation with the man, which meant that he failed to notice the attention he was receiving. She caught the eye of Combeferre who smiled at her before rolling his eyes. She nodded her comprehension. Those two were just hopeless; there was no doing anything with them.

+

Two weeks later, on Cosette’s last night in London before she flew home, Feuilly and Bahorel announced that they would be hosting a Monty Python Marathon at their flat. The idea was that everyone would show up with some food or drink before they would watch all the films, starting with Holy Grail.

They managed to convince Enjolras to lend them some of his bean bags so that they could accommodate everyone in their living room. When Grantaire had arrived he had managed to bag the last spot on the sofa which he gladly took, wearing a smug expression.

Joly and Bossuet hadn’t been able to make it due to Joly’s shift at the hospital. Jehan and Courf were already curled up on top of each other in one of the chairs. Cosette and Eponine had squeezed themselves together into Bahorel’s bigger chair, Eponine lazily braiding the other girl’s hair.

Bahorel was taking up most of the sofa, waiting for Feuilly to come in with the popcorn, at which point he intended to shift over a bit so his flatmate could sit down. Marius had sat himself down in one of the bean bags next to Bahorel’s chair, every so often looking up at the two girls to his left.

The last person to sit down was Enjolras. He came into the already dark living room, looked about for a likely place to settle, before chucking his beanbag down in front of the sofa. Grantaire only just managed to repress a squeak as he felt the guy lean back against his legs.

Feuilly came in with two bowls of popcorn which he put down at either end of the room, before making his way to his seat and pressing play.

Grantaire’s mind was ablaze. He was intensely aware of everything. He was aware of Enjolras leaning against him. He was aware of how the shadows played across him, showing his profile in stark contrast to the room around him. He was aware that it was Enjolras who had introduced him to Monty Python in the first place.

He closed his eyes for a moment, remembering how it had felt to lie with Enjolras, his head resting on that chest, finding a peace he hadn’t experienced before or since. He remembered the delicious scent of skin, soap and fabric conditioner. He remembered how soft Enjolras’s hair had felt between his fingers.

He opened his eyes, trying to concentrate on the film before him. Every so often there were hoots of laughter from the crowd and he could feel Enjolras shaking against him with mirth. Very slowly, without being quite aware of it, he moved his hand to brush his fingertips against the back of Enjolras’s head and the mass of curls resting there. He hitched his breath as he felt Enjolras lean into the touch.

He experimentally shuffled his fingers in the curls. The other boy shifted but did not pull away, instead he seemed to shuffle closer, pressing towards Grantaire. His heart beat began a treacherous rhythm which he was sure Cosette could hear from the other side of the room.

The moment when he thought he might actually have died was when Enjolras rested his head against his knee. He continued to twist his fingers gently in those curls, and Enjolras, whom he hadn’t actually managed a decent conversation with since his sudden return to his life, was permitting him without censure.

The peace of the moment was broken by a loud knock at the door. Feuilly hit the pause button, grumbling, knowing damn well that Bahorel wasn’t about to get off his arse to answer it. Enjolras lifted his head sleepily from Grantaire’s knee, leaving the other man bereft.

A moment later a strange voice filtered through the flat.

“Is Enjolras here?” Enjolras shot up off the bean bag and away from Grantaire at a ridiculous speed. He fell over Marius on his way to the door, barely stopping to apologise. Bahorel grumbled, taking a swig of his beer. Feuilly’s clear voice could be heard next.

“You’re welcome to join us, if you like. There’s food and drink and the film hasn’t been on that long. I’m sure we can squeeze you in.”

“No thank you.” It wasn’t a warm voice, Grantaire thought. It was similar to Enjolras’s voice, but without the passion, which made all the difference in the world.

“Ready to go?” The question was obviously aimed at Enjolras who must have nodded or replied very quietly because the next sound was the door closing and Feuilly re-entered the room, shrugging his shoulders.

Grantaire wasn’t in the mood anymore. After about five minutes, he got up and carefully made his way across the room to the kitchen on the pretence of getting a beer or a sandwich. He was surprised when Bahorel joined him.

“They met at a protest,” he said, answering a question Grantaire hadn’t asked. Grantaire took a moment before replying.

“Which protest?” As if he actually gave a damn.

“One of those Occupy things. Apparently he’s a leader of a pressure group. We were all quite surprised. I lost a bit of money, actually. Enjolras didn’t seem the type to date. We knew he was gay, of course, but none of us had known him to actually date before.”

Bahorel rested against the kitchen counter next to Grantaire, folding his arms, his smile seeming forced, not quite reaching his eyes.

“Enjolras seems to like him, though.” Grantaire nodded, trying to drive the empty sensation out of his chest.

“Why didn’t he come in?” At this Bahorel laughed outright.

“I’ve never known him to come to anything. Not the staff meals, not the pub; he won’t come to parties and he definitely doesn’t come to this sort of informal get together, no matter how nicely we ask him.” Bahorel rubbed the back of his neck thoughtfully.

“I guess, from the outside, we can be quite intimidating. There’s a lot of in-jokes and complicated relationships. Maybe he feels threatened by that. Maybe he found it difficult to get to know us,” he mused, half to himself. Grantaire gave a snort.

“I managed it without too much of an issue,” he pointed out, good naturedly. Bahorel nodded.

“But then you had Jehan on your side. Jehan loved you; there’s no way you wouldn’t fit in.” The pair of them stood in silence for a moment, lost in their own thoughts before Feuilly started to shout at them from the other room.

“If you’ve finished your touching heart-to-heart in there, I’m about to put the next film on.”

They grabbed their drinks and returned to their friends.

+

About a week later, he had stopped by to drop another forgotten lunch off at Courfeyrac’s office. He stopped briefly at reception to wink provocatively at Toby (much to the other man’s displeasure) before swaggering down the aisle towards where Courf and Bahorel were based.

He chatted to them for a bit before a pointed cough from the boss indicated it was time to take his leave. On his way out he very nearly collided with Enjolras who was returning from a morning with a client. Grantaire nodded a hello and had nearly made it to the lift before doubling back on himself and calling out to Enjolras, who turned slowly around.

“I’m going up to Sheffield this weekend. My Gran is due to start her next round of chemo in a couple of weeks’ time.” Enjolras stared at him, his face strangely guarded. “Just wondered if you wanted to come with?”

Grantaire wasn’t sure what had possessed him to ask Enjolras along. He was sure several hours together on a train could quite possibly end in a murder. However, he remembered what Enjolras had said, about how he had been visiting Grantaire’s grandparents in his absence. He felt sure they would want to see him.

He saw Enjolras exhale slowly as he considered his answer.

“Can I get back to you?” he said at last. Grantaire nodded, before turning to leave.

The following day at the studio, Grantaire was waving goodbye to a lovely couple who wanted their portraits done for their 25th Wedding Anniversary, when Enjolras shuffled in through the door. He had his hands shoved in his coat pocket and his skin seemed to glow in the winter sunlight, but his eyes were dark shadows.

“I’m sorry, Aire, but I can’t come this time,” he spoke to Grantaire’s feet. He seemed genuinely sad not to be going. Grantaire wanted to reach out to him, to rest a hand on his shoulder and tell him it was ok, that there would be other times.

“Can you tell her, your Gran, tell her I said hello, yeah?” He looked up suddenly, a slightly desperate, lost look on his face that just about broke Grantaire’s heart. He wondered what was going on in that golden head.

He agreed to pass on the message and then watched as Enjolras sloped off down the street and round the corner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title is taken from Seneca's 'Hercules Furens'
> 
> Now, nobody panic, but I don't think I'll be able to do an update now until Friday. Possible Thursday. If we say Friday then it will be a pleasant surprise if I do manage to post on Thursday.
> 
> The darts season starts up again tomorrow so I'll be throwing arrows rather than tapping keys. Sorry!  
> *runs and hides*


	7. A Hideous Invention of I Know Not Whom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire takes Jehan to Sheffield. When he gets back he has his first Bad Day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for graves, death, cemeteries and depression

It was Friday. Eponine had made sure that Grantaire’s schedule was clear so that he would be able to head to Sheffield nice and early. He was just shoving a final jumper into his over-night ruck sack when Jehan stuck his head round the door.

“Did you want a lift?” he enquired, politely, a soft smile playing round his lips. Grantaire pulled a face.

“To Sheffield? It’s a little out of your way, darling,” he teased, trying to pull the zip round. Jehan folded himself into the room, giggling lightly.

“It’s going to be empty in the flat this weekend. I don’t have a shift til Monday but Courf has got his Big Case to work on and with you gone I’ll be all on my own.” He took a delicate step forward, running a skinny finger up Grantaire’s back between his shoulder blades. “You wouldn’t leave ickle me on my own would you?”

Grantaire grimaced and spun round, catching his friend’s fingers and pressing a kiss to them. Dear Jehan, so ridiculously tactile. Bloody tease, that he was.

“Seriously though,” he said, his face forming itself into a pointed expression, his lips pressing into a firm line, “I can drive you there, and you can introduce me to your grandparents and it’ll be lovely.” He batted his eyelashes hopefully. “Pleeeeeeease?”

The Big Case had been boring everyone to tears for the past two days. Courfeyrac had been leaving the house at stupid o’clock in the morning and returning at silly o’clock at night. Jehan patiently waited up for him, making sure he ate and slept a little before he left to do it all again.

Grantaire knew it would be quicker in a car and it would be nice to have the company, so he agreed.

+

They had just passed Junction 18 of the M1 when the feeling started. At first, Grantaire was dimly aware of a certain discomfort. It was the sort of sensation that one might have left the gas on. There was something on his periphery which was bothering him but he couldn’t quite place it.

He had been thinking about what he would do this weekend. The main priority was to see his Grandmother, to see how she was doing and to catch up with her. There were bound to be a few jobs that needed doing round the house. He knew with winter well on its way that his Granddad would probably want him to check the gutters. That was all fine.

The other thing he wanted to do was go to visit his mother’s grave. Therein lay the source of his discomfort. Discomfort suddenly accelerated towards nausea and he had just enough time to shout at Jehan, who calmly and efficiently pulled them on to the hard shoulder, before he leapt out of the car to be sick.

Jehan also got out of the car and went to the boot to find the bottle of water he kept there. He passed it to Grantaire who was now spitting onto the grassy bank, swearing oaths under his breath.

“Reckon you can make it to the next services?” he asked gently, keeping his distance. Grantaire pulled a face and nodded.

They sat at a table in the services drinking an appallingly expensive and disgusting cup of coffee. Jehan stirred and stirred as though centrifugal force might turn it into something palatable. Grantaire took a deep breath.

“I need to tell you something before we get to Sheffield,” he grunted, looking at his hands rather than at Jehan. His flatmate said nothing, waiting for him to continue.

Grantaire considered what he was about to say very carefully indeed. He was so used to keeping everything close to his chest, never sharing any information with anyone because he had run from it for so long it was just easier living in anonymity. It was what he had always done. What people hadn’t known hadn’t hurt them.

Then Enjolras had come along. He had known. He knew pretty much all of Grantaire’s secrets and he had been hurt by them in the worst possible way over and over again. It had merely reinforced the point. People didn’t need to know.

However, in this situation he would have preferred to have Enjolras by his side. Enjolras would not have needed to ask about why Grantaire wanted to spend his weekend in a cemetery. 

It wasn’t that Grantaire didn’t trust Jehan because he did. He just hated having to talk about it, having to recognise that it was real, that it did happen, that his mother was dead. He hated questions and explanations and conversations. He hated pity.

Right now, Jehan was expressionless. He was waiting. It was that wonderful sixth sense that he had. He knew Grantaire was building up to something and that he would come out with it in his own good time.

Jehan already had pieces of the puzzle, of course. On that first night outside the pub, when Grantaire had assumed that Enjolras had told all and sundry about the events of the 7th April, he had let slip about his father. Jehan had never mentioned it or alluded to it in any way since then. Grantaire had been grateful for that but now he wished it had been discussed much sooner. Now his hand was being forced and his surroundings were as far away from familiar and welcoming as possible.

“My mother,” he started, trying to keep his hands still. “She is buried in Sheffield. I want to go visit her grave.”

Jehan watched him carefully, keeping his expression neutral, his shoulders relaxed. His eyes were steady in their contact with his own but were soft, gentle and calming. He nodded that he understood but didn’t say anything else.

“It was him,” Grantaire whispered, lowering his eyes. “What happened to me, he did it to her too.”

And he told the story. He told Jehan about how he met Enjolras. He told him about everything that had happened in those months leading up to April. He told him about that last day, at least, what he understood of it.

Jehan leaned forward then, his face contracting in pain, his mouth opening slightly as he seized Grantaire’s hand. Grantaire considered pulling away for a moment but he could not resist the touch of his friend.

“Thank you,” Jehan murmured. Grantaire lifted his head to look into the green eyes staring back at him. He didn’t understand. Most people, when they found out his mother was dead, automatically offered apologies and platitudes in their awkward hurry to get as far away from him as possible. No one had ever thanked him before.

A single tear trickled down Jehan’s cheek but he offered a very small, untranslatable smile.

“Thank you for trusting me with this. I know it must have cost you a lot.”

Grantaire felt a sudden lift in his chest. It was an indescribable feeling. It bordered upon freedom. Jehan had just accepted it from him, taken his words and filed them away. He hadn’t tried to fix Grantaire. That had never happened before.

He took a deep, steadying breath, getting used to the new sensation in his body. He thought he might never let go of Jehan’s hand – his hand was what kept him grounded to the earth.

He told Jehan, in a very shaky, small voice, that he could talk to Courfeyrac, and the others if he thought it was a good idea. It was time people knew but he didn’t think he had the strength to tell everyone himself. But if Jehan wanted to do it then he had Grantaire’s blessing. Jehan stood up then, walked around the table and presses a kiss to the man’s forehead.

“Let’s get to Sheffield,” he whispered. “I want to meet your Grandmother.”

+

They stood side by side in the low winter sunlight. Grantaire had picked up a small bouquet of white roses from a florist on the way there. He laid it down on the grave, gently.

“Mum, this is Jehan. He’s my flatmate in London,” he murmured, not at all self-conscious. Jehan waved shyly at the gravestone.

He watched as Grantaire stretched out his palm flush to the cold stone beneath his fingers. He drew his eyes up, then, to look across the rest of the cemetery, giving Grantaire an element of privacy so that he could whisper secrets to the grass. As the young man stood, Jehan slipped their hands together, a quiet reminder that Grantaire was not alone.

+

Naturally Grantaire’s grandmother adored Jehan on sight. While her grandson ascended a ladder to clear the moss from the gutters and retrieve next door’s Frisbee from the garage roof, Jehan and Elsa sat in the living room cooing over photo albums and sharing stories.

They continued their friendly chatter as Grantaire, having raided the fridge, decided to whip up his Polish Bigos. The family sat round the table, laughing and familiar and it felt like home. Grantaire cast a glance at Jehan and in that moment he was grateful for all his friends.

+

Eponine had been busy in his absence, scouting out potential locations for a photoshoot that may translate into something for R to sink his teeth into.

She had heard rumours of a pub in Forest Hill, the Capitol ‘ABC’ Cinema. It had sounded promising and she forwarded the details to Grantaire to check out on his return from up north.

It was a delightful Art Deco building, originally opened in 1929. It had changed into the ABC in 1968 and even though it was now one of those chain drinking establishments, the Upper Circle of the theatre remained intact, complete with atmospheric dust.

Grantaire agreed that it was worth looking into. 

As it happened, it was decidedly unimpressed with it. The whole thing just about broke his heart. It was a sad blasphemy of a building, the delicate architecture given over to cheap beer and people too drunk to tie their own shoelaces. The empty chairs could only stare down sadly from the gods upon the beer-swilling masses. Grantaire liked a drink, but he hated this.

As he made his way home, his head and heart both heavy, he failed to recognise some fairly basic signs of deterioration. When he awoke the next day, empty and unresponsive, it was too late to do anything about the inevitable Bad Day that was upon him.

Nobody in his new circle of friends had seen him on a Bad Day yet. They had seen him grumpy, angry, aggressive, sarcastic, petulant, cynical and cantankerous. Bad Days were worse. On the Bad Days there was nothing.

He lost all sense of time and proportion. He could only be and even that hurt. Lying on the bed in the position in which he had awoken, he had no choice but to stare at the wall. His brain was too empty to bring to focus. He could hear but could not process. He could see but could not translate.

Jehan knocked on the door at eight o’clock as usual. He didn’t move. He didn’t drink the coffee the kind young man brought to him. He out right refused to take his meds. He just stared at the wall. He felt the world wash over him. He could practically feel the earth turning beneath him and it made him feel sick.

Eponine called him. He ignored his phone.  
At some point she was there, shaking his shoulder, or maybe he hallucinated that, he wasn’t sure. She was talking but he couldn’t make sense of the words. He just wanted to sleep. Why wouldn’t they just leave him alone?

+

Eponine closed the bedroom door behind her shaking her head in exasperation. Jehan knotted his hands with worry. He had to be at work in twenty minutes but he couldn’t even begin to consider leaving his friend like this.

“I can reschedule his appointments, that’s the easy bit. But I’m obviously not getting through to him.” She mused, pacing up and down outside his door. 

Jehan’s phone rang just then; it was Courf. He had snuck off to the bathroom to make a quick personal call, concerned for both his boyfriend and his flatmate. Jehan wailed down the phone, not sure of the right course of action.

Courf calmed him, whispering comforting words across the line. He told Jehan to go to work; he’d fix it somehow.

+

Feuilly was surprised to get a phone call from Courf. He knew they were absolutely stretched beyond belief at the firm right now. Even Bahorel had been roped into helping with the Big Case.

He was even more surprised to find that Courf was whispering. His friend sheepishly explained that he was in a bathroom, but that wasn’t important right now. What was important was that Grantaire needed someone.

Forty minutes later, Feuilly was being let into the flat by Eponine. She indicated that the man in question was still in bed, that his meds were untouched but that he appeared to be sober. Feuilly nodded, thanked her for her help and promised that he would call if he needed her. Shutting the door softly behind her, he made his way down the corridor and gently opened the bedroom door.

He sat down on the edge of the bed. He could see the mess of curls protruding from the top of the duvet. For a moment, he said nothing, casting a quick glance around the room while he struggled to find the right words.

His eyes fell upon a small grouping of photos on the wall. There were some of Courf and Jehan, one of Bahorel, one of the whole gang taken the last time they were at the pub together – even Cosette was in that one. Just off to the side, hidden in plain sight within the mass of other photos, was a smaller picture of two teenagers. The photo was worn with crumpled corners. He recognised Grantaire from the curls. He recognised Enjolras by the eyes.

He dropped his own gaze from the photo, as if he had stumbled across something unbelievably private, turning his attentions back to the man in front of him.

“I have an interesting job today,” he started, hoping it was the right thing to say. Grantaire didn’t move, made no sound to indicate that he had heard. Feuilly continued.

“I think you’d like it. It’s something of a wilderness. People aren’t normally allowed in unless with a guide and even then they have to stick with the route.” He almost missed it, but Grantaire shifted imperceptibly, obviously listening to Feuilly’s quiet words.

“It was left pretty much to nature for the longest time. It’s taken them thirty years to fight their way in this far. You should come and bring your camera. I can get you in with me.” He waited for a second, then Grantaire turned his head, eyes blinking out of focus.

“Where is it?” he croaked, his throat dry and only just able to get the words out. Feuilly smiled down at him.

“Highgate Cemetery.”

+

There are two parts to Highgate Cemetery; the tourist part to the East and the haunted part in the West. Feuilly was part of a working group in the “haunted” part of the cemetery, which was now an area of managed woodland as nature had pulled out all the stops to reclaim her land from the invading human hordes. 

The Western part was an eerie place, not usually open to the public without a guided tour, mostly for safety reasons as it was such a wilderness, they couldn’t risk members of the general public just wondering off.

Nobody minded when Feuilly turned up with a friend in tow. A few people called out a friendly salutation to him, but otherwise they let him be. He wasn’t alone so he was permitted to head off in whatever direction he chose, Grantaire following behind.

The fog was starting to lift in the artist’s mind as his creative synapses began to fire. The walk up the hill to Highgate cemetery had almost been too much but now that he was here, breathing the cold wintry air, he appreciated the effort.

Everything around him was beautiful. If Pere Lachaise was a city of the dead, then this was a forest of the dead. Trees sprawled, ivy clung and here and there were stones hidden amongst the greenery. The monuments themselves were typical Victorian flamboyance. It had obviously been very fashionable to be buried here at one time.

The deeper in to the cemetery, the more overcome with flora and fauna it became. Feuilly warned him of the grooves in the earth that appeared to be pathways. These were not what they seemed. They were the mass pauper’s graves. No wonder nature left them alone.

The most astounding thing about the magical forest in which he found himself was that when the dead were laid to rest here it had provided one of the finest views in London. The forest had not even begun, but had pushed and clawed and forced its way through much later.

Feuilly got on with his work, while Grantaire sat down near a monument in the design of a sofa and began to draw. When Feuilly moved on to another area, Grantaire would follow. He took out his camera, catching image after image of stones, monuments and trees.

Feuilly led him up Egyptian Avenue to the Lebanon Circle, calling out random facts and pointing out tombs of particular interest. This area had been used extensively in 1970s horror films. Out of the corner of his eye, Grantaire could just imagine Peter Cushing or Christopher Lee emerging from behind a grave.

When Grantaire had drunk his fill, when his hand ached from holding a pencil and his sketchbook, head and memory card were all nearly full of ideas, they left the bleak and cold wilderness of the West Cemetery. Crossing the road, Feuilly threw him a cheerful grin, waving him past the shed that doubled as a ticket office and led him into the more popular side of the cemetery.

This side did not tickle his curiosity as much as the other. It was far too neat, far too orderly. But it was definitely eccentric. No one here had settled for a run-of-the mill headstone. 

The first grave he stumbled across that caused him interest was that of Douglas Adams. He stared at it for a moment, wishing Jehan was here, knowing how much his friend would love it. He fished about in his pockets, withdrew a pen and plunged it into the grass, next to the pens of others who had sought pilgrimage and done the same.

The tomb of Karl Marx wasn’t hard to spot. Grantaire and Feuilly both laughed heartily. He wondered what Enjolras would have to say about it, considering that it could hardly qualify as a tomb of the people.

At the sight of the grave of Malcolm McLaren he thought of Bahorel. Sculpted beautifully from wood, it was brutally honest, reading only that Malcolm Was Here.

Feuilly laid a hand upon his shoulder, gently asking if he was done for the day. The light was fading and it was time to return to the land of the living. Grantaire turned to his friend, smiling in gratitude. There were no words, but they both understood.

On the train home they talked of Grantaire’s time in Russia, how his experiences there compared to here. Grantaire told Feuilly about the fifty hour train journey from Moscow to Promyshlennyi; that he had barely been able to walk straight for a day after getting severe cramp in his legs when he became dehydrated due to motion sickness. The worst part about it, he said, was knowing that he had to make the journey back. Feuilly agreed that he would never complain about the British transport network ever again.

+

Enjolras was still in the office long after everyone else had called it quits for the day. In the silence he was startled when he phone buzzed loudly against the desk. It was Patrick calling.

“Where are you?”

There was no preamble, no hello or warm greeting. The man cut straight to the point. Enjolras sighed.

“I’m still at the office. I’m not quite done yet.” He dragged a hand through his hair, looking from his papers to the clock.

“Enjolras. What is more important, me or your work?”

Enjolras knew he shouldn’t pause to answer this question, and he was surprised at how easily the lie tripped off his tongue.

“You, of course. But work is important too. My boss needs me to get this done.” There was a frustrated sigh from the other end of the phone.

“You know, I think I may have to chain you to the bed tomorrow so I can spend some time with you.”

It was probably meant to be a joke. He was sure Patrick intended it to be a light, suggestive sentence intended to thrill rather than chill, but Enjolras only felt cold.

Things between them hadn’t been right for a while now. When they had first met he remembered how invigorated he had felt. Here was a person who was passionate, with whom he had a lot in common. Patrick believed in change and Enjolras wanted to help him achieve that change, see him succeed and become great.

But sometimes he felt he didn't know him at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spoil you lot.  
> I started writing this on my lunch hour at work, continued on my commute home and finished it after I came home from darts (We drew our darts match on legs) so I apologise for any spelling errors - I'll read it through again tomorrow and correct as I go.
> 
> This was heavily influenced by a post on tumblr which reminded me of the beauty of the Highgate Cemetery in London which I was lucky enough to explore in October 2011 after we discovered several of my ancestors were buried there (yes, I know, very la-di-da) 
> 
> A few points of interest;
> 
> white roses - because it's Yorkshire :)
> 
> Everyone needs a Jehan in their life.
> 
> The ABC cinema does exist - it is a wetherspoons (which I suppose is better than being torn to the ground, but only just)
> 
> Feuilly taking Grantaire to work with him was just too good an opportunity to miss. In my head it makes sense that he's green fingered because he is good with his hands, not just with paint but with making things grow.
> 
> Karl Marx's tomb is HUGE and not at all subtle.
> 
> I know you're all really worried about Enjolras and I'm sorry because the last bit probably didn't help.


	8. That Somewhat Grotesque Dread of Mirrors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jehan, Courfeyrac and Grantaire are interrupted during their friday night movie evening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning for blood, injuries, domestic violence and controlling behaviour.  
> cw for mentions of rape (but no actual rape)

Patrick wasn’t like anyone Enjolras had ever met.

Their paths had crossed at a rally against the G8. Patrick had been handing out home-made flyers, shouting at passers-by, challenging their apathy. It had caught Enjolras’s attention. They had struck up a conversation which lasted long enough for Patrick to invite him for a coffee.

They had gone for another coffee a couple of days later to continue their discussion. Before Enjolras knew what was going on they were meeting regularly, discussing ideas and theories.

Patrick worked in IT. He abhorred the greed and inequality of society. He wanted to bring the whole lot crumbling round their fat-cat ears. Enjolras remembered smiling at the image.

“Oh,” Patrick had said, his eyes shining, “the things we could do together, you and I!”

He had been surprised but not necessarily displeased when Patrick had kissed him. Patrick wasn’t necessarily his type but Enjolras respected his views and ideas. He adored his lust for change. Things between them had gone from there.

Patrick was the only thing Enjolras and Combeferre had disagreed over. Enjolras had been surprised one day to receive a phone call asking for him to attend a police station where his boyfriend (when had that happened?) was waiting for him. He had been arrested for Obstructing the Police.

Enjolras had dutifully gone down there to bail him out and had received a number of raised eyebrows from the officers who were used to him being there in a more professional capacity. Combeferre had been furious.

“He outed you without your consent.” Combeferre didn’t shout, he merely paced aggressively, wearing a line in the carpet, his glasses slipping down his nose in frustration. Enjolras had clicked his tongue in annoyance.

“I’m already out. Just because I don’t go around with it tattooed to my forehead doesn’t make it a secret. My choice of partner is no one’s business but my own.”

Combeferre had thought that was exactly the point, but held his peace, settling for a well-aimed glare of displeasure that Enjolras returned with interest. He pressed Combeferre, wanting to know what his problem was.

Combeferre would not be drawn into one of Enjolras’s angry rants, stating simply that Enjolras would be a fool to throw his career away by falling in with a bad crowd. He recognised there were problems in society but surely it was better to bring about change through the education of the people; by giving them all the tools necessary to come to their own conclusion.

The argument had not ended well and things between them had remained cordial at best for a number of weeks after that.

Combeferre’s words had eaten away at Enjolras, despite their argument. He agreed with some of what Combeferre had to say, though he was a little too proud to admit it. He did agree, however, that there could be other means to an end.

But then things had started to change. Patrick was possessive. He wanted to know where Enjolras was, who he was talking to. He was passive aggressive, getting moody if he didn’t think Enjolras was spending enough time with him. He had a way of turning the screw on Enjolras so that he started to make changes to fit in around Patrick’s life without even realising it.

He told himself that compromise was all part of a healthy relationship, that he had been on his own too long and naturally it would take some time to adjust. He ignored the fact that Patrick did not appear to be making any compromises of his own.

Before Grantaire’s sudden return into his life, he had been pondering his relationship with Patrick. He hardly went out anymore. He seemed to spend his life split between the office and at his or Patrick’s flat. Patrick had somehow managed to extract a set of keys from him so that often the man would be at Enjolras’s flat waiting for him when he got home from work. He never seemed to get a moment to himself.

He realised something had gone badly wrong one evening when he was on the phone to Courfeyrac discussing a case they were both working on. Patrick was on the sofa, apparently calm, watching him talk on the phone. He leaned forward to Enjolras and coughed politely. Enjolras had ignored him.

Patrick was not put off. He reached out and tapped Enjolras smartly on the shoulder, the point of his finger digging to the bone. Enjolras turned to him.

“Just a moment, I’m talking to –“

The phone was suddenly ripped from his grasp. A second later it was on the floor where Patrick stamped on it. Enjolras stared at the broken shell of his phone, his breath stilled in his chest.

“There, now,” said Patrick amiably, his face torn with a grin. “That’s better.”

Enjolras had been too ashamed to tell anyone about what had happened. He quietly bought a new phone and asked his friends not to call in the evenings.

He became careful with what he said and what he texted to them. He knew Patrick periodically went through his phone. It wouldn’t have surprised him if the man had somehow cloned it.

Two weeks later, he had the opportunity to catch up with his friends for the first time in ages. Patrick had been called into work as part of his company’s Emergency Recovery Plan training so Enjolras had taken advantage of his absence by agreeing to go to the pub. He had been tired and anxious and wanted to talk to Combeferre, to get his friend’s advice.

Instead the entire evening had been thrown into chaos by the sudden appearance of That Man.

Grantaire.

Aire. _His_ Aire.

It almost physically hurt to be in the same room. All he could see, all he could feel, was that man walking away from him. Five years worth of anger and frustration and the painful sense of absence just exploded inside him. And yet he couldn’t deny how good it felt, the strange electric sensation in his fingers just from looking at him.

Then he was gone. Again. He had stormed from the bar before Enjolras had even had a chance to say hello properly. It had almost been too much to bear.

After twenty-four hours of sheer misery, he determined to seek him out, to talk to him and get him out of his system once and for all.

He snuck out on the Sunday morning while Patrick had still been in bed and headed to Jehan and Courfeyrac’s flat.

Of course, the chat in the coffee shop had not laid any such ghosts to rest. Being alone in Aire’s company was actually worse somehow because he was so there, so tangible. It made him think of everything that didn’t seem quite right with his life. He missed chatting easily with friends. He missed driving up to Sheffield to see Elsa. He missed being alone with his thoughts and his books. He had fled from that café and from Aire, back to his flat and to Patrick.

After that, they didn’t seem to be able to talk to one another properly. Grantaire would smirk and be flippant which in turn made Enjolras lose his temper. He wasn’t simply angry at Aire, he was angry at the way he made him feel. He had forgotten how it was to feel that way. He was angry that Aire seemed to be able to make him feel that way with so little effort and regard for Enjolras’s sanity.

Knowing that Aire was back in England, was so close by, was like someone switching the light on in his head. He would hear Courfeyrac talking to Bahorel about him in the office, when he thought Enjolras was too far away to hear them. He heard all about his great cooking skills, the stories of his adventures over seas and the photography studio.

He would hear them talk about what fun they all had together when they met up at weekends and after work with Feuilly and Jehan. Fun without Enjolras.

He went home in the evenings and looked at Patrick. Even though he could see why he had been drawn to the man at first, he knew it wasn’t love. It wasn’t all that he wanted from a relationship. He knew he had to do something. He was an idealist. He still hoped that they could work through their problems, that if only they worked together they could, in turn, make it work.

Unfortunately, Patrick didn’t seem to share his vision.

+

It was another Friday night. Courfeyrac was exhausted. He had come home from work incredibly late and collapsed immediately upon the sofa. Jehan had folded himself around his poor, tired boyfriend, whispering delightful promises of pizza and a movie.

“Do I get to choose the movie?” he had mumbled hopefully. Jehan agreed that he could, that it was only fair as he had been working so hard on the Big Case. Courf had gone off to shower and change into more comfortable clothes while Jehan went and knocked on Grantaire’s bedroom door to see if he wanted to join them.

Forty-five minutes later all three of them were in the living room trying to agree on what pizza to order while Courf slotted a horror film into the DVD player. He loved horror films because it usually ended with Jehan cowering into his arms.

Grantaire had set himself up on the floor with the laptop, his lips pursed as he scrolled though the menu while Jehan got into something of debate with himself over the various different qualities of each pizza topping. With any luck Jehan might have come to some sort of decision before the end of the film.

The street door buzzer sounded loudly throughout the flat. Jehan abandoned the sofa and skipped down the hallway, his bare feet echoing on the hardwood floor. From the living room, Grantaire and Courf could hear Jehan’s cheerful voice chuckling into the intercom before he buzzed someone up.

“Who is it?” called out Courf from his position on the sofa, but they didn’t get a reply. Courf heaved himself up, grumbling at being forced to move when he was so comfortable. Grantaire grinned at him, his attention still on the laptop. There was a small pause and then he heard the front door open.

The strangled and horrified way that Jehan cried out the word “Enjolras” had Grantaire hurtling over the back of the sofa and down the hallway as fast as his legs could move.

+

Patrick had insisted on picking Enjolras up from work and driving him home. The atmosphere in the car was forced and uncomfortable. The past few days had been unbearable, the pressure from work and home seemed to be crushing him. He just wanted some space to think; was that so much to ask?

Enjolras had come to a decision. They needed to talk.

He tried to explain how he felt, that he really liked Patrick but he wasn’t sure the relationship was working. He respected Patrick but he just didn’t feel the connection. Maybe it would be best if they took a break from one another.

He remembered the swearing, the volume and the rage. He was dimly aware of the fist connecting with the side of his face, of the shock and horror as well as the pain. He remembered his hands blindly reaching for the door handle and then just jumping out of the moving car without any thought at all. He simply had to get out, get away, get as far as possible from the beast in that car.

He was aware of rolling along the road. He remembered how his heart had stopped at the sound of screeching breaks. He had willed his legs to move, to run. He had run and run, darting down alley ways, hoisting himself over fences, changing direction as often as he could until he found himself in a bin shed on a housing estate, his breath shuddering as he tried to listen for any sound of a Patrick in pursuit.

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there in the dark. He had no phone, no keys, no wallet. He counted slowly to one hundred before slowly emerging from his hiding place. Then he started to walk.

+

Enjolras stood in their doorway. The first thing Grantaire saw was the red line of blood down one cheek from a cut below his eye. Already a bruise was beginning to blossom.

Then he took in the trousers ripped at the knees, the shirt torn at the elbows. But this all paled in comparison to the dead look in Enjolras’s eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice surprisingly calm. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

Grantaire stepped forward and slowly knelt down so that he was just below Enjolras’s line of sight. When he spoke he used the softest voice he could manage whilst still speaking clearly.

“Enjolras. Is it ok if I touch your shoulder?”

Enjolras’s eyes flickered to him and the man nodded. Very slowly, Grantaire reached forward his warm hand connecting with Enjolras’s small, boney shoulder. Then he spoke again.

“Tell me what you need.”

Enjolras’s lip began to wobble and the marble cracked. He swallowed several times, trying to get a grip on himself. Jehan had retreated until his back was flush with Courf’s chest, his hand reaching behind him to see the comfort of his boyfriend’s touch. Eventually Enjolras was able to answer.

“P and C.” Enjolras stuttered. Grantaire’s eyes widened and Jehan thought he saw his flatmate’s skin go pale, but when he spoke it was in the same, soft even tone as before.

“Jehan, can you go and retrieve the first aid kit from the kitchen cupboard for me. Courf, I need you to run to the garage and get me two cans of coke. Proper coke, not the cheap or diet stuff.”

Courf was about to argue when Jehan squeezed his hand, so he found himself agreeing and went to grab his wallet and jacket.

“I’m going to stand up now, ok?” Grantaire was whispering to Enjolras now who nodded. Carefully, he stood up, taking care to use his own weight rather than resting on Enjolras, but unwilling to take his hand from his shoulder. He gently manoeuvred Enjolras into the flat towards the bathroom. He could hear the sharp jagged way the young man was breathing, could see how he limped slightly. He caught sight of his hands, saw they were heavily grazed and raw.

“Will you be ok if I shut the door?” he asked carefully, keeping his eyes on the other man to pick up any sign of discomfort. Enjolras, his eyes on the floor, could only nod his head. Then they were alone.

Grantaire took a moment to breathe. He felt strangely calm and part of him wondered at his lack of panic. He pushed that thought away, focussing his attention on the task ahead. But first, he had to ask a really awful question.

“Enjolras,” his voice was very low, as though he almost didn’t want the other man to hear him. He saw Enjolras lift his head, to show that he was listening but he didn’t turn around.

“I’m going to look after you, ok? But before I clean you up… I’m sorry, I have to ask –“ he exhaled slowly, willing himself to keep his voice steady. He swallowed. “Have you been raped?”

His heart almost stopped when Enjolras didn’t move, didn’t turn around, didn’t do anything. He couldn’t believe it. He could almost feel his world go into free fall when Enjolras slowly turned to face him.

“No.”

Grantaire felt the relief course through him. He wiped a nervous hand over his mouth, breathing in purposefully. He nodded at Enjolras, and leaned over to switch on the bath taps and put the plug in.

A soft tap at the door distracted him. It was Jehan with the first aid kit and the cokes that Courf had bought. Grantaire murmured to him that he wouldn’t be long. Jehan nodded and left them alone.

He cracked open one of the cokes and held it out to Enjolras who took it, a strange gulped laugh escaping from his lips. He let out a long breath and took a drink from the can. Grantaire held out some paracetamol to him, smiling sadly. Enjolras took it willingly.

They stood in silence while they waited for the bath to fill but it wasn’t awkward. Grantaire knew that Enjolras would talk to him when he was ready. Until then he just needed to look after him and tend his wounds.

“Do you need help with the buttons or will you be ok?” he asked, motioning towards the nearly full bath. Enjolras experimentally tried his luck with his shirt button but his fingers shook too much. He was happy to drop his hands back to his sides, allowing Grantaire’s more nimble fingers to work efficiently.

Enjolras had a nasty graze down one side that was already starting to hint at the vibrant purple it would surely be tomorrow. Grantaire held his peace but he wondered what the fuck had happened. Enjolras said he hadn’t been sexually assaulted, which was good news. But he was in a hell of a state. He looked like he had been run over.

They switched off the taps and Enjolras gingerly stepped into the bath, hissing as the hot water came into contact with the bloodied grazes on his shins and knees. He sat, his knees drawn up to his chest, staring straight ahead, his face expressionless.

“I’m going to wash you, ok?” Grantaire continued to speak softly, to give Enjolras room to say no if he needed to. He nodded. Grantaire took a sponge and gently started to clean his wounds.

He moved lightly over the skin on his shoulders, moving in slow, sweeping motions first down one arm and then the other. He tried to be as gentle as possible with the injuries to the elbows and hands, but Enjolras still scrunched up his face, hissing in pain. Grantaire murmured an apology; Enjolras simply shook his head. What could they do? They needed to be cleaned.

“Patrick and I had a fight.” Enjolras’s voice sounded disconnected, it almost didn’t belong to him. Grantaire bit his lip, saying nothing, concentrating on washing the worst of the muck and blood from Enjolras’s body.

He moved on to Enjolras’s knees, trying to be gentle on the tender skin of the joint.

“I told him I wanted some space. He got angry. Hit me. So I got out the car.”

Grantaire set the sponge down.

“I take it the car was moving?” he asked, amazed at how calm his voice sounded when inside there was a vengeful fury rising up that demanded Patrick’s head be violently separated from his body before becoming intimately acquainted with a spike.

Enjolras nodded. Grantaire tugged a hand through his hair and sighed. He went to stand up.

“I’m going to get you a clean t-shirt and some track suit bottoms. You can take all the time you need in here. Then, when you’re ready, you can come out and join us for pizza. We’ll wrap you up in a blanket on the sofa and we’ll watch one of Courfeyrac’s terrible horror movies and you can go to sleep if you like. Because you’re with friends and you’re safe.”

Enjolras looked up at him, his blue eyes suddenly full of tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *deep breath*
> 
> I'd apologise but, seriously, my apologies are starting to sound rather hollow aren't they?   
> I'm sure a lot of you are feeling rather vindicated right now (but not necessarily happy about it)
> 
> The chapter title is taken from Oscar Wilde’s Picture of Dorian Gray.


	9. Pylades wipes away the foam from Orestes, tends his frame and shelters him with a fine well-woven robe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's still Friday night and Combeferre is on the way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some details of injuries

Grantaire stepped out into the hallway and closed the bathroom door behind him. Jehan and Courfeyrac were standing in the living room, tensely clutching each other’s hands, waiting for Grantaire to tell them something, anything. Grantaire sighed.

“I’ve called ‘Ferre,” Courfeyrac said, stepping forward.

Grantaire didn’t fully understand why he suddenly felt angry, but was barely able to suppress the snarl in his tone when he spoke.

“Why?”

He saw Courf stop in his tracks, his eyes wide at his reaction. Grantaire swallowed, getting a grip on himself.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. Courf nodded, but his shoulders didn’t relax.

“Combeferre is Enjolras’s best friend,” he supplied, keeping his voice low but his brow furrowed.

It shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did, but it felt like blow to the gut to hear those words.

_You’re just the ex boyfriend, the flatmate of university friends. Of course he wants his best friend._

He turned away from the two men in front of him and stumbled towards the kitchen, grabbing the counter for support as his legs began to shake. The adrenaline was starting to wear off and the full horror of the situation was kicking in. He tapped his fingers nervously on the counter.

“When he comes out, I’m going to need you guys to be calm and normal. He won’t want you all crowding round him, demanding answers,” he spoke quietly to prevent his voice from carrying through the bathroom door. “Jehan, can you order the pizza? He’ll have Hawaiian. Olives, no mushrooms. Don’t care what you pick for me.”

He dragged a hand through his curls and moved towards his bedroom. Grantaire was really beginning to struggle now. _Just a little more_ , he told himself, as he filtered through his clothes looking for something suitably clean and paint-free.

The same thoughts kept rolling round his head. This was his fault. All his fault. He should have listened to his instincts. He should have known. He should have swallowed his fucking pride and spoken to Combeferre. He could have pressed Enjolras that day, gotten him to open up, instead of retreating and leaving the man be. He should have known.

Shutting the drawer, he took a deep and shaky breath. It was just as well that Combeferre was coming. Courfeyrac was right. He was Enjolras’s best friend. He would do a much better job of looking after Enjolras than he could ever hope to.

He made his way back out into the hall and tentatively knocked on the bathroom door.

+

Time was just about beginning to make sense again.

The walk to Jehan, Courf and Aire’s place had taken at least two lifetimes as far as Enjolras knew. Then he was there and the door was open and all the sounds had muted together. He could hear Aire’s voice, see his eyes, but it all felt like it was through thick glass.

The first thing he had been really certain of was the warm palm against his shoulder. It was a grounding force, an anchor keeping him in the real world and he clung to it.

The heat of the bath water had been heaven and pain all rolled into one. Aire’s careful cleaning of his skin, his back and arms and knees had made him want to weep with relief. He could _feel_. Up until then he was afraid he would be trapped inside his numb little bubble for the rest of his days.

It had been soothing to be in Aire’s presence. He asked no questions, asked nothing of him. He was just there. He told Enjolras that he was amongst friends, that he was safe. It was too much.

He sat in the bath, clutching his knees to his chest, shivering despite the warm temperature of the water. Not even the clear and charming words sloping across the walls could distract him. Reality was starting to come into focus. A strange sound came from somewhere, surprising him. It took him a moment to realise that a sob had escaped from his lips.

Aire was back. He was reaching forward, lifting him gently and wrapping him in the most gloriously soft towel. Judging by the pattern he would guess it was one of Jehan’s.

Aire was murmuring soft reassuring nonsense to him, guiding him out of the bath. He passed over some clean boxer shorts which Enjolras somehow found the energy to pull on. He rested himself against the bath while Aire started to open the First Aid Kit.

The other man looked up at him, face careful and expressionless but not unkind. He had obviously asked a question that Enjolras hadn’t heard because he motioned expectantly towards his bruised and scraped knees. Enjolras could only nod, giving his permission to be touched, to be fixed.

Aire knelt gently before him. The cream was cold and Enjolras could not suppress his gasp, which resulted in another whispered apology from the man before him. Somewhere very deep inside he felt vaguely guilty for putting the man through this.

Aire was working deftly with lint dressings and surgical tape. He made quick work of Enjolras’s knees and passed an appraising eye over the shins. The skin there was mostly still in tact so he settled for rubbing a small amount of cream in before instructing that Enjolras could put his jogging bottoms on. Enjolras swayed slightly on his feet, fatigue nearly overtaking him. His hands grabbed out for support, finding Aire’s shoulder. To his surprise, the other man didn’t flinch away for once but remained completely still.

He watched Aire’s face while the other man tended to his side. It helped to ignore the sharp pain he experienced, despite Aire’s gentle touch. The ribs were tender but not broken, thankfully. He watched the brown eyes which were pinpoint focussed and observing Enjolras like he was a work of art rather than the broken and bruised man he really was.

The elbows were also declared fit for purpose, though mostly because he would be wearing short sleeves which would not rub against the raw skin there. The right forearm required a bandage and both hands needed to be wrapped to keep them clean over night. The sensation of the soft material being ever so carefully wrapped around his fingers made him feel warm and safe. He could not suppress a small smile. He looked up at Aire who gave him a small and puzzled smile back.

“All done,” the brown-haired man whispered. Enjolras stared at his hands. Already the pain in his body was beginning to subside. Already he was beginning to feel like a human again. Thank you would never be enough.

+

As soon as Courfeyrac buzzed him through the street door, Combeferre ran up the stairs as fast as he could. He was met at the door by a very pale Jehan who waved him inside.

Enjolras was rolled up like a burrito in a soft blue blanket on the sofa. Only one bandaged hand was free and that was full of pizza. On the television, some teenagers had just decided that the middle of a wood, miles from civilisation, was the perfect place to set up camp for the night.

Combeferre knelt down beside him, his arm reaching out to his friend, taking in the bruised and cut cheek, the pale skin and red eyes full of fatigue. He didn’t say anything at all. It was as though he could read Enjolras’s mind.

“I’m fine,” Enjolras murmured, unable to hold Combeferre’s gaze. Combeferre nodded, patting his shoulder gently before straightening up. He turned round to look at Grantaire who was standing awkwardly by the kitchen counter, feeling horribly out of place.

“May I have a quick word?” he asked, motioning to the privacy of the balcony. He saw Grantaire’s surprise and quick nod. Ferre turned back to Enjolras, smiling and reassuring him that he would be back momentarily. Then he slipped outside and shut the door.

Grantaire was lighting a cigarette and staring out into the dark. Combeferre stood next to him, leaning against the balustrade. Now that he knew that Enjolras was safe, that he had been looked after, the panic was beginning to subside.

Combeferre was not familiar with the sensation of panic. He usually met life head on with a calm and firm outlook. He rarely raised his voice, something that had been particularly effective in his teaching career. He knew his pupils only smirked and laughed at teachers who lost their tempers. They respected Combeferre for talking to them, not at them.

When Courfeyrac had rung him he had been at the pub, drinking with some of his fellow teachers, winding down after another hard week. He felt as though the wind had been knocked from him when he heard that his best friend had turned up, covered in blood and unable to talk in full sentences. The bus ride had been intolerably long and the run from the bus stop had taken most of his adrenaline rush. Now, in the fresh air, having seen his friend, he let the calm return.

“Thank you for looking after him,” he said sincerely. Grantaire didn’t reply but he did incline his head slightly so that it was partially turned towards Combeferre.

“It was Patrick,” he said flatly, his voice spitting the last word as though it was something disgusting. “Enjolras jumped out of a moving vehicle and ran for his fucking life from that bastard.” He brought a hand up to rub his face and mouth, as though to cleanse it of the truth. Combeferre stared mutely at him. He felt all the pain in those words.

“We’ll deal with it in the morning. For now, I’m going to take Enjolras back to mine,” he said smoothly, taking over the situation. He caught how Grantaire tensed his shoulders but the other man didn’t say anything. He ground out his cigarette against the brick work and turned towards the patio doors.

“Best get in, then,” he said. Combeferre ignored the blank face, instead taking in all the pain, hurt and sorrow residing in those sad brown eyes. In that moment, he began to understand why Enjolras had felt the way he did. He began to see Grantaire. His face softened and his own shoulders relaxed as he reached forward, almost involuntarily to place a warm hand at Grantaire’s elbow. He offered a gentle smile. Grantaire dropped his eyes from the burning gaze but did not move from Combeferre’s grasp.

+

Enjolras tried to see through the reflections in the glass to where Grantaire and Combeferre were standing outside talking. Jehan was sitting on the sofa, his head resting on Courf’s shoulder while Courf pretended to watch the film.

He had been feeling warm, comfortable and sleepy until Combeferre had arrived. Now he felt slightly anxious. He knew neither of the two men outside had spoken much to each other. He wondered what they had to say to each other now.

At last, the French doors opened and both men came back in to the room. Grantaire resumed his position against the kitchen counter, his arms folded protectively around himself and his eyes on the carpet. Combeferre walked smartly up to Enjolras and crouched down before him, a soft smile on his lips.

"When you’re ready to go, I’ll take you back to mine,” he said. Enjolras creased his forehead. He didn’t want to go to Ferre’s. He wanted to stay right here. Here he was safe, Aire had said so. Why couldn’t he stay here?

“I want to stay here,” he muttered, unable to keep the strain of petulance from his tone. Combeferre looked surprised. His eyes flicked to Courf who just shrugged.

“Aire!” Enjolras called out in a weak voice, causing the man to snap his head up and look right at him. “I want to stay here. Why can’t I stay?”

And, _oh god_ , he could feel the panic rising in his chest and he was too hot and there were too many people and he was sure he was going to be sick. He hurled himself off the sofa, gasping for air.

Combeferre reached forward but he shrugged him off, his face red.

Suddenly Aire was by his side, reaching forward tentatively, whispering, asking for his permission. Enjolras nodded, still struggling to breathe as Aire softly rubbed circles into his back and led him slowly to the bathroom.

Combeferre took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, unable to prevent the crushing feeling in his chest at his rejection. He knew Enjolras was in a vulnerable place right now and that he probably hadn’t meant it. He was so used to his usually strong and collected friend that it was just unbelievably horrible to see him reduced to this. He realised now that the air of calm around him was obviously a fragile facade.

“It’s not your fault. Grantaire just seems to be really good at this.” Courf placed a firm, reassuring palm on his shoulder.

“From what I understand,” Combeferre said very quietly indeed, “those two have a very long history dealing with this sort of thing together.” The atmosphere weighed heavily on them as they each thought about the full meaning of that.

Grantaire came out of the bathroom and jogged softly to the kitchen to grab a glass of water.

“He’ll be fine,” he reassured the anxious group. “You just startled him, that’s all. I don’t think he was ready.”

Combeferre nodded as the other man passed the water through the door to Enjolras. He then closed the bathroom door and returned to the living room.

“Do you guys mind if Enjolras stays? He can have my room – I’m happy with the couch. Not sure I’ll sleep much anyway.” Courf and Jehan practically fell over themselves with reassurances. Of course they didn’t mind. Enjolras could stay for as long as he needed. Jehan even offered Grantaire the use of his room, which usually nobody was allowed in, not even Courf.

Grantaire smiled warmly at the gesture but insisted the sofa would be fine. Grantaire looked to Combeferre for the final word. Ferre could see the question in his eyes; he wasn’t sure about this either. It was almost as though he was seeking Combeferre’s blessing. Combeferre nodded.

“It seems to be to be the best idea. He’s obviously not ready to leave just yet. As long as you guys don’t mind and that’s what he wants.”

After a few more minutes, Enjolras emerged from the bathroom looking horribly embarrassed and as though he was about to collapse through exhaustion. He wobbled his way over to the sofa.

Combeferre forced himself to look away from his friend, instead watching the different expressions on the other men’s faces. Jehan looked completely broken. Courfeyrac looked as though someone had punched him repeatedly in the stomach. The pair of them looked at their friend, not even attempting to mask the great sadness and pity they both so obviously felt.

He glanced up to Grantaire who was back against the kitchen counter. He was watching Enjolras but with a fixed neutral expression, almost expectant, as if waiting for something. Combeferre remembered something Enjolras had told him many years before. Grantaire had always scorned pity.

He looked back to where Enjolras sat on the sofa, somewhat shattered. His friend would be fine because not only were there three other people in the room right now who all loved him, at least one of those people had half an idea of what he needed. He cleared his throat.

“I’m going to go, Enjolras. But I’ll be back tomorrow if that’s ok?”

Enjolras looked up at him. His face was a mixture of fatigue and emotion. The poor man would probably be asleep before Combeferre reached the bus stop. Enjolras reached an arm out towards him.

“Thank you for coming,” he said as Combeferre took his hand, sandwiching it between both his palms. Ferre smiled at him through his glasses.

“Whatever you need,” he said softly, before slipping out of the room. Courf went to see him to the door.

Grantaire sat down and cast a glance at Enjolras who was already half asleep beside him.

“Come on,” he said, reaching out to gently manoeuvre Enjolras off the sofa. Enjolras allowed himself to be directed towards Grantaire’s bedroom. “You’re in here tonight.”

Enjolras started to protest as Aire slid him into the bed, tucking him in under the duvet.

“Where will you sleep?” he mumbled, eyes already drooping closed against his will. He was warm, wrapped up inside the heavy duvet, the soft scent of Aire surrounding him, enveloping him, filling his mind. Aire didn’t answer.

He was asleep before Grantaire reached the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be short (2800 words later...)
> 
> Thank you to everyone who is still with me on this. Your kind words are highly valued, I assure you!
> 
> Title shamelessly stolen from "Homosexuality in Greece and Rome: A Sourcebook of Basic Documents" ed. Thomas K. Hubbard
> 
> It is implied that Grantaire fills Courf & Jehan in on what happened to Enjolras between finishing sorting him out and Combeferre's arrival.
> 
> By the way, I've mentioned this to a few people, but to just put it out there once and for all, Patrick's character was the product of an evening's procrastination about "what if Patria were a real person..." So, yes, Patrick is my personification of Patria, because Patria pretty much chewed up and spat Enjolras out, but luckily R was there to hold his hand :)


	10. And Stars Informing Nights of Unknowing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He knew that on the other side of the bedroom door the real world was waiting for him. There would be questions and uncomfortable truths and decisions to be made. It was safer in here."
> 
> Saturday and the repercussions from Friday Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw - talk of blood and violence and night terrors

He could hear the steady thump thump of those feet ascending the stairs and all Grantaire could think about was protecting Enjolras, keeping him safe. He was sure his heart was about to explode out of his chest with fear and he tried to move but his legs were frozen in place. He opened his mouth to shout a warning, to tell Enjolras to hide, to get away. No sound came out.

The door was flung open and his father stormed into the room, advancing upon him, towering over him.

“No, you’re dead, you’re fucking dead!” he cried out, his voice strangled with terror. The hideous arms reach out towards him and all he could do was close his eyes before the inevitable blow.

There were hands on him, but they were soft, gentle and shaking him awake. He opened his eyes to find himself face down on the living room floor, Jehan kneeling over him, eyes full of concern.

“Oh shit,” he groaned, rolling into a sitting position, massaging his eyes into focus. He was aware that he wasn’t wearing a t-shirt but he just couldn't bring himself to care right now.

“You were shouting,” Jehan rubbed small circles into his shoulders soothingly.

“Did I wake -?” He looked over towards the hallway where Courf was just emerging, his hair all sleep-mussed. He shook his head, sleepily.

“Still out for the count, mate, don’t worry,” he yawned, stretching before flopping down on the sofa. Grantaire hoisted himself up from the floor to sit next to him. Jehan moved to the kitchen to boil the kettle.

“Want to talk about it? You were saying someone was dead?” Courf asked, pointedly maintaining eye-contact with Grantaire and avoiding looking at the man’s torso. Grantaire, in turn, looked over to Jehan whose fingers were shaking as he set out the mugs. He suddenly felt so unbelievably guilty.

These guys had put up with a lot from him in the short time he had lived with them. It had been a total drama from the first day and yet here they were, silly o’clock in the morning, dealing with his night terrors only a few hours after one of their best friends had pitched up on their doorstep bruised and bleeding. He owed it to them to give something back.

“My dad,” he said, rubbing a hand over one elbow nervously. He gratefully accepted the cup of peppermint tea that was pressed into his hands before Jehan tucked himself next to him on the sofa.

“I haven’t dreamt about him in ages. Years. But it’s always the same. He is coming and I can’t get away.” The tea was hot, but he welcomed the raw burn on the roof of his mouth. He doesn’t mention the fact that Enjolras was there too.

He supposed it must be his mind trying to remember, even though he hoped he never would. He didn’t want to remember that day. He had read enough on paper to know that he never ever wanted to know what true fear and terror looked like in Enjolras’s eyes. He didn’t want to remember what it felt like to fight for his life or to feel the blade of a knife enter his body. He didn’t want that.

He looked to Courf who was nodding in a way that suggested he had no idea what to say.

“Anyway,” he said bracingly, “this isn’t about me. I’m fine. I’ve been dealing with this for a while now. I guess tonight just triggered something in my head.” He reached forward to put the empty mug on the coffee table, confident that he had convinced precisely no one with his claims to be fine.

Courfeyrac cleared his throat.

“Jehan and I were talking just before we went to sleep,” he started, shooting a glance over to his boyfriend, seeking his support. “We want to ask Enjolras to move in here with us.”

“We don’t want him to be on his own, especially not for the next few weeks.” Jehan murmured, reaching out to touch Grantaire’s arm.

Grantaire sighed. He should have expected this. He couldn’t blame anyone really, of course Enjolras should move in here. He couldn’t be expected to stay in his own flat by himself after what had happened, especially as that psychopath had keys and they’d need to get the locks changed at the very least.

“No, of course. Right,” he said distractedly, already working out in his head how quickly he could organise a van. “I’ll move my stuff out tomorrow.”

Jehan let out a squeak and suddenly the man was on top of him, almost strangling him.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” he hissed furiously into Grantaire's ear, the fingers digging into his shoulders. Courf snorted.

“Don’t be daft,” he grinned, reaching out to rest a gentle hand on Grantaire’s shoulder, his fingers overlapping Jehan’s. “We’re not kicking you out. We’re asking if you’re ok with that? I mean, you live here too. We wouldn’t just invite Enjolras to live here without your input.”

Grantaire couldn’t think straight with a Jehan-shaped koala attached to him so he started to peel the young man off him, which only made him cling on tighter. He had to make several solemn promises that he wasn’t going to pack his bags and move out (mostly because that would involve waking Enjolras) before he consented to let go. Instead, he folded himself onto Courf’s lap, allowing his boyfriend to stroke his hair.

“So, how would that work?” he enquired, scrunching his eyes as he tried to force his brain to work.

“He can have my room,” said Jehan simply. Grantaire opened his mouth to protest. He knew how much Jehan valued his privacy and his space. He did all his writing in there. Jehan cut him off.

“Friends in need are always more important,” he insisted, loyally. “I can move my stuff elsewhere, it isn’t a problem.”

Grantaire thought about it. He really thought about it. Did he want to share a roof with Enjolras? Well obviously his heart thumped an aggressive answer to that question but his head was, most unusually, far more sensible. There had been more bad words than good between the two over the past couple of months. Then there had been that moment at Feuilly and Bahorel’s – what had that been all about? Not that he’d be able to find out now because of the events of the past couple of hours. He wasn’t quite sure what, if any, impact that would have on their tempestuous friendship. Living with Enjolras.

The studio was nearby as a suitable bolt-hole. If things got too unbearable he could always move out.

“Yeah, I think you should ask him,” he said. Courf and Jehan smiled.

There were still a few valuable hours of potential kip before he had to be up in the morning. Jehan had a shift at the book shop to look forward to as well, so they bid each other could night.

Grantaire tried not to think too hard about what life would be like under the same roof as his ex boyfriend, especially the ex boyfriend he was still horribly in love with. He pulled a cushion over his head, trying to suffocate that last thought out of his head.

+

He was woken by a strange, insistent buzzing noise. Everything was stiff and sore and he felt like he had been running a marathon rather than sleeping. He blindly reached out to the source of the buzzing, he fingers closing over his phone on the coffee table.

“Fucking finally!”

“Ep –” he tried to prise his eyes open and pull his brain together as the angry woman ranted into his ear.

“Do you have any idea what time it is? I was about to come and forcibly extract you from your pit!”

He peered up to the clock on the kitchen wall and groaned. His first appointment was in about half an hour. Jehan must have left about two hours ago without waking him up.

“Put the coffee on, I’ll be there in ten. Is my spare suit still in the office?” He was already on his feet, stumbling towards the bathroom.

“Yes.” He could hear the uncertainty in Eponine’s voice. “Is everything ok?” Her voice was softer now, not as angry.

“Nope,” he said, sighing with resignation. “I’ll fill you in when I get there. Won’t be long.”

He hung up and jumped into the shower. He washed quickly, deliberately leaving the water colder than his usual preference in an effort to wake up. As he exited the shower he spotted Enjolras’s torn and bloody clothes discarded on the floor. He scooped them up and took them outside with him.

He exited the bathroom wrapped in a towel and made his way to the kitchen where some clothes were hanging on a clothes horse. He grabbed a clean pair of boxers and pulled on last night’s jeans. For a moment he considered putting the clothes in the washing machine, but decided it might not be a good idea. If Enjolras went to the police there might be forensics or something so he bunged them into a carrier bag.

Reaching for a pen off the side he scribbled a quick note in case Enjolras woke up and found him gone.

_I have a few appointments today but I promise I’ll be back before 4pm_

_-R_

He cast a longing look at the percolator before shoving his feet into his trainers, grabbing his smarter shoes from the shoe rack and running out the door.

+

“You look like shit.”

_Well good morning to you too_ , he thought, stumbling through the door, the delicious scent of coffee leading him up the stairs. He heard Ep throw the lock on the front door before she followed him to the staff area.

“So what happened?” Eponine folded her arms as she leant against the door frame, her eyebrows arched as he went into the office to pull on some smarter clothes. He called the general gist of it out to her while he struggled into a shirt and brown waistcoat, but his fingers which had been so dexterous the night before, didn’t seem to want to behave today. Eponine had to do up most of the buttons for him.

“Seriously, if you need me to reschedule…” she said at last, casting a concerned yet critical eye over him. He shook his head vehemently. He didn’t like cancelling on people, plus it was only a consultation this morning and a small shoot this afternoon. It would be a welcome distraction.

By the time his first appointment arrived fifteen minutes later he had successfully made the transition from dishevelled to eccentric, which was far easier to carry off in a professional environment.

+

Combeferre stood nervously outside the flat, waiting for someone to buzz him in. When he had woken this morning it had been with a heavy heart. He wasn’t sure what time he had managed to drop off last night, but he was very aware that his mind and been racing round and round for quite some time.

When Courf eventually buzzed him in, he got the distinct impression he had pulled the poor man from his bed.

“Jehan and Taire are at work,” he yawned, heading towards the kitchen. “Sleeping Beauty still hasn’t risen yet.”

He flicked the kettle on and waved a mug at Combeferre who nodded in acceptance.

“Did you sleep at all?” he asked Courf, studying the unusual shadows round his eyes. Courf smiled ruefully.

“Not really. Jehan was very upset and we chatted for ages, then Taire had a night terror so we were up with that; then Jehan got up ridiculously early for work. A lot happened in this flat last night but not much of it was sleep.” Combeferre nodded in sympathy.

They sank down on the sofa. There was an easy silence between the two men as they drank their tea. Combeferre liked Courfeyrac immensely. All three of them had been excellent friends all the way through Uni and he trusted his judgement.

“How’s Grantaire?” he asked, apparently nonchalantly but Courf shot him a look that was only too knowing.

“Well he went to work, which I was quite impressed with. I was impressed with the whole thing, to be honest. He really stepped up.” Combeferre nodded, his head slightly inclined.

Grantaire had always been something of a riddle to him. He had heard about the man from Enjolras long before he had met him. He had tried to get to know the man behind the stories but Grantaire hadn’t made that very easy, keeping his distance. He hoped that some of that had been overcome after last night but only time would tell.

“You said he had a night terror?” he enquired. Courf pulled a face.

He told Combeferre about the strangely honest conversation in the middle of the night. He had heard from Jehan the truth about Grantaire’s upbringing – Jehan had assured him it was with Grantaire’s full consent – but it had been something of a shock to hear words from the man himself. He told Combeferre with a shudder about catching a glimpse of the scars, how he had really tried not to stare but they were just so appalling.

“It’s weird,” he said, putting his coffee down on the coffee table. “Watching the way those two interacted last night, how Grantaire was with him. I mean I just had no idea what to do, but Taire was so calm. I could actually see how they might have worked once.”

Combeferre smiled sadly. He remembered only too well how in love his best friend had been. Having now met Grantaire he suspected that it had been more than mutual. In a strange way, in spite of the horrific circumstances, it was nice to have that confirmed. Many times over the years, when Enjolras had suffered a particularly bad day or was feeling especially morose, he had wondered what the other man had felt for his friend, if anything, to hurt him in such a way.

“Enjolras slept all the way through. I checked on him when Jehan went to work and replaced his glass of water. I’m just going to let him sleep it out of his system.” Combeferre agreed that this was the best plan.

+

Jehan came home at three o’clock, finding the boys on the sofa watching a documentary which, judging by the look on Courfeyrac’s face, had been Combeferre’s choice. Jehan hugged Combeferre tightly, pleased to see him again in the light of day. He retreated to the bathroom for a soak and was still there when Grantaire came home forty minutes later.

Combeferre could see how tired he was from the way he held himself. He flopped down between them on the sofa, chucking his studio keys on the coffee table and reaching down to peel his work shoes off his feet. Combeferre was pleased at the shy smile he received from the other man.

“You been here all day?” he enquired politely.

“Yes, but Enjolras is still asleep,” he supplied, returning the smile. Once Grantaire had wrestled his feet free, he sat back, sighing dramatically. Courf elbowed him.

“I’m hungry,” he whined petulantly. Grantaire grinned wickedly at him, raising his eyebrows in an obvious expression that said he didn’t see how that affected him at all. Courf made another whiney sound.

“Puh-leeeease, Taire!” the other man raised the back of his hand to his forehead, pretending to swoon from lack of food. Grantaire rolled his eyes and went to get up.

“You are so fucking spoilt, Courf,” he teased, good naturedly. Then, turning to Combeferre he asked “Goulash ok?”

+

When Jehan emerged from the bathroom snuggled inside his dressing gown, his long hair wrapped in a towel, he was led by his nose to the kitchen, his eyes closed and his mouth watering.

As there were so many of them, they pushed the coffee table against the wall and set up the fold out table and chairs, setting the table for five. They were just wondering if they should wake Enjolras when the man himself emerged from Grantaire’s bedroom.

+

Enjolras had woken slightly disorientated but very warm and comfortable. He was aware of the banging pain in his head, and the aches and protests of his body. He was wrapped up inside an unfamiliar green duvet but he would recognise that scent anywhere. He was in Aire’s bed.

He knew that on the other side of the bedroom door the real world was waiting for him. There would be questions and uncomfortable truths and decisions to be made. It was safer in here.

He wondered how he was ever going to be able to look his friends in the eye ever again. He prided himself on having a level head, being someone who was strong and who could be looked up to and depended upon. He hated the weakness that sometimes escaped from him. He hated the way his body behaved against his will.

He still couldn’t believe Patrick had hit him, that he had allowed someone to strike him and then had run and hid. He screwed his eyes closed, forcing his thoughts elsewhere.

He thought about Aire and how relieved he had been to see him. He felt intense gratitude for everything that man had done for him. He thought about Courf and Jehan; about the lost look on Courf’s face and Jehan’s frightened expression. His heart sank a little at the thought of Combeferre. He had been awful to him last night. He would apologise at the first opportunity.

He knew he was lucky to have all these people in his life but right now he just wanted them to all go away. He wanted to sleep and sleep and not deal with any of it.

He cast his eyes round Aire’s room. This was the third bedroom belonging to the guy that he had been in. It was a compressed version of the room in Sheffield. There was stuff everywhere. All the walls were covered in sketches in various levels of completion. The floor was thick with clothes as though the wardrobe had been sick on the carpet.

The wall above the bed was covered in photographs. Some of the backgrounds he recognised; Kiev, Moscow, Warsaw, Budapest. Some of them were more obscure. There were some beautiful shots of an icy landscape which could easily be Siberia or Alaska for all he knew. None of the photographs had Aire in them, but a couple had a few people grinning at the camera, some held their thumbs up or had their arms in the air, all smiling happily at the camera. He wondered who these people were, how they had known Aire, what Aire was to them.

Further over were more recent photographs. Some had been taken in the pub round the corner. He was surprised to see himself in one as he hadn’t remembered the photo being taken. Cosette was in it so that narrowed down when it was taken.

The bellow of Aire’s laugh attracted his attention. He could hear a murmur of chatter. It sounded like everyone was in the living room. At the same time, a delicious scent crept under the door, reminding his stomach that he hadn’t eaten anything all day. He knew he couldn’t put it off forever. He’d have to go out there sometime and face the music. Better sooner rather than later.

+

“Hey, sleepy head!” Courf called out to him as he emerged, still wearing the joggers and t-shirt from the previous night. Jehan moved fluidly over to him, wrapping him into a hug.

“Taire is making his famous goulash; you simply have to have some!” he enthused, taking Enjolras’s hand but Enjolras pulled back.

“Can I just… I will, I just need…” he mumbled, looking around the room feeling lost, before turning around and walking out of the room. They heard the bathroom door close. Jehan bit his lip.

“I’ll go,” Combeferre stepped forward, casting a glance behind him to where Grantaire was still cooking in the kitchen. He saw the other man nod supportively just before he exited the living room.

He tapped gently on the door.

“It’s me,” he said just loud enough to be heard through the wood. He wondered what else to say. He didn’t want to crowd the man. It was quite possible he actually needed the loo, but it was equally possible that he was having a moment and needed not to be alone. He could hear the water running. He leant against the door, waiting for some sort of sign, which is how he came to fall over sideways when Enjolras suddenly opened the door.

Seeing his friend collapsed in an undignified heap on the floor made Enjolras smile in spite of himself. He leaned forward to offer a hand to help him up. The two friends regarded each other.

“Can I hug you?” Combeferre asked gently, peering over the rims of his glasses. Enjolras took a moment before nodding shyly. Hugging was more Courf and Jehan’s area, or occasionally a bone-crusher from Bahorel. He and Combeferre didn’t normally feel the need to hug. But this was one of those rare, appropriate occasions and Enjolras felt himself relax into that steady grip.

“I’m sorry,” they both muttered at the same time, before breaking apart to smile at the carpet.

“You’re going to be all right, Enjolras.” Combeferre stated calmly, pushing is glasses back up his nose where they belonged. Enjolras nodded.

“It’s going to be tough, and crap and you’re going to hate it, but we’re all here to tread the path with you. You just need to let us. Ok?”

Enjolras managed a genuine smile this time, grateful once again for having his best friend by his side.

“Now come on, before Courfeyrac eats all of this famous goulash I’ve heard so much about.”

Dinner was a pleasant affair. Courf presided at the head of the table, Jehan and Grantaire down one side, Combeferre and Enjolras on the other. Conversation flowed easily, the laughter came naturally and all five of them forgot the scars and bruises and pain in favour of good food and better company. For a few blessed hours they were permitted to forget themselves and be normal.

And if Grantaire and Enjolras spent most of the meal shooting glances at each other when they thought no one was looking, well, Combeferre wasn’t going to say anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I don't really know what to say. You're all wonderful people :)
> 
> Combeferre and Grantaire seem to be getting their arses in gear (which will be good for Enjolras) Nothing like a crisis to bring out the best in people.
> 
> Chapter title taken from the poem "I Sing of Change" by Niyi Osundare


	11. These Archives I Shall Carry Into Exile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "When Enjolras woke up on Sunday it was with a feeling that he might just be about ready to get back to his life."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for talk of abuse

When Enjolras woke up on Sunday it was with a feeling that he might just be about ready to get back to his life. The night before had left him with a good feeling in his heart. He had enjoyed watching his friends talking and laughing easily around him. They had included him without it being forced or awkward. 

He had smiled in satisfaction as Combeferre and Grantaire chatted away enthusiastically, Combeferre sharing his experiences in the Ukraine where he went to teach English as a Foreign Language for a year after his graduation. Midway through the discussion about “did you go to this place” they suddenly and seamlessly switched from English to Rusyn, much to the amused consternation of the other members of the group. 

The evening had only come to an end after Jehan had fallen asleep on Courfeyrac. Combeferre took his leave and Grantaire insisted that Enjolras have his bed again, that the sofa was more than comfortable and that he would brook no opposition. Enjolras had been too exhausted to argue further and had gratefully sunk into bed, falling asleep almost immediately.

Now it was a new day. He decided that it was time to stop hiding; he should go home, face his flat and start to put his life back together.

Aire was still asleep on the couch, face pressed into the cushions. The tops of his shoulders were visible where the blanket had slipped. On his left shoulder blade he could see some black lines of a tattoo but he couldn’t decipher it from across the room. He thought about Aire’s other tattoo and briefly wondered if he’d acquired any others. Shaking his head, he forced himself to keep on walking to the kitchen where he tried to negotiate the percolator. 

He saw the man sniff and then sigh as the scent of the coffee roused him. His curls were sticking out at all angles and he only managed to open one eye to squint towards to kitchen to see who was touching his precious coffee machine. Upon seeing Enjolras he grunted in satisfaction, dropping his head back on the cushions.

“If you were Courfeyrac you’d be in so much trouble right now,” he mumbled into the soft furnishings. Enjolras smiled affectionately and poured him a coffee before taking it over to him. A hand emerged from under the blanket, accepting the mug and managing to successfully drink from it without sitting up.

“I don’t think they’re here,” Enjolras said, going back to the kitchen to get his own drink. He definitely wasn’t looking when Aire sat up, the blanket dropping down, and he most certainly had his eyes fixed on his mug when the other man stretched. When he looked back up, Aire had shrugged into a t-shirt. 

Enjolras took a sip of his coffee, enjoying the strong flavour. His eye fell upon a carrier bag on the kitchen floor. Upon closer inspection he discovered his clothes from the other night.

“What’s this?” he stood back up, holding the bag for Aire’s assessment. Aire folded himself off the sofa and sauntered over to the breakfast bar to take a closer look at what Enjolras was referring to. Upon recognising the bag he shrugged.

“I didn’t want to wash them in case the police needed them,” he said, eyes still sleepy. He turned to return to the sofa. 

Enjolras stared down at the bag, Aire’s careless words ticking over in his brain. Right, obviously. There was an assumption here that he would want to go to the police. Except that he didn’t. 

It wasn’t for Patrick’s sake. Quite honestly he wasn’t sure he would able to stand in the same room as that man ever again. But the thought of going through another police interview, having to relive the whole thing again, made him shudder. 

He didn’t want that feeling back. He didn’t want to be a victim. He just wanted to forget about it and move on with his life; write it off as a bad experience. Unconsciously he tugged a hand through his hair and went to chuck the bag in the bin.

“What are you doing?” Aire’s face was scrunched up in confusion as he watched Enjolras slam the lid of the bin closed with a certain viciousness. 

“I’m not going to the police, Aire. I don’t know where you got that impression from, but I’ll just clarify that for you now.” His voice was hard, his words stinging. Aire was still half asleep and wasn’t really awake enough to deal with the shift in mood as comprehensively as he might have done if he’d had a shower or some breakfast.

“What, so you’re just going to let the bastard get away with it?” His eyes narrowed, not quite believing what he was hearing. Enjolras froze. He fixed a glare on the man before him, pulling the emotion from the very base of his being. When he spoke his words were like knives.

“What?”

+

Jehan and Courfeyrac were walking hand in hand back to the flat. The November morning was fresh but sunny and a stroll to the shops to pick up some bacon for breakfast had seemed like the perfect idea.

As they paused at the street door to share a last kiss, the unmistakable sound of Enjolras shouting filtered down to them from the flat above. Courfeyrac swore as he scrambled to get his keys from his pocket. 

As they got to the top of the landing they could hear the words more clearly through the door.

“You are such a hypocrite! I BEGGED you to leave that house and you still bloody stayed –“

“Yeah, and that really worked out well for me, I can see why you’d want to follow in my footsteps!”

Courfeyrac and Jehan paused on the landing, torn between wanting to go in or run back down the stairs and hide away somewhere until the storm had passed.

“I don’t understand why you’re making such a big deal out of this, it’s really none of your business”

“I thought you’d been fucking raped! Have you any idea what it was like to see you like that?”

“Oh I’m sure it was really hard for you, poor Grantaire!” 

Enjolras was sneering but his voice trembled with emotion, he sounded about five words away from bursting into tears.

“Mommy and Daddy are fighting again” Jehan sighed, sinking down onto the carpet, placing his chin on his hands. After a moment, Courf joined him. Arguing was pretty much situation normal for these two, as far as he was aware. He was trying to work out if the fact they were back to it so soon was a good sign or not.

“You know damn well that’s not what I meant. I just can’t believe, after everything we’ve been through, you wouldn’t want to do something about it.”

“This is a completely different situation. He’s never hurt me before –”

“Oh please! They don’t change, Enjolras. I know you always think the best of people but they never fucking change. Ever.”

“I’M NOT YOU!”

Enjolras practically screamed the last three words and there was a terrible silence.

“Well we finally get to it. You’re right of course. People like me get abused but not people like you. Is that the sum of it? Well fuck you, Enjolras.”

The fact that Grantaire wasn’t shouting anymore, that he was speaking in a very low voice that they could hardly hear and was quite obviously crying by the end of the sentence; that was the very worst part of it. Jehan and Courf decided, somewhat belatedly, that enough was enough. Courf went to enter the flat when they heard a door banging. A second later he had just enough time to move, grabbing Jehan out of the way, before Enjolras stormed from the flat. He didn’t look at either of them as he raced down the stairs, the street door crashing closed behind him.

“I’ll go after him, you go sort Taire,” Courf said, giving his boyfriend’s hand a squeeze before taking off down the stairs after Enjolras. Jehan took a deep breath and entered the flat.

Jehan was tired. He was so tired. He just wanted to enjoy his day off with his boyfriend and instead he was mediating between Enjolras and Grantaire again. They couldn’t even be left alone together in the flat for half an hour without trying to kill each other. Right now he wasn’t feeling especially sympathetic. In fact, he was feeling closer to murderous.

He banged on Grantaire’s bedroom door.

“Fuck off” Grantaire’s voice was more broken than angry. There was none of the usual venom to the expletive.

“It’s me,” Jehan called through the door. “Grow a pair and get out here so I can kick your arse.”

His face softened a bit when Grantaire emerged looking utterly disconsolate. Jehan wanted to be angry with him, he really wanted to be furious but instead he folded himself round Grantaire, holding him close so they stand together in silence.

“What happened?” Jehan broke the quiet, leading Grantaire to the sofa and sitting them both down. Grantaire shrugged, looking hopelessly lost.

“I don’t know. I was asleep. There was coffee and then there was shouting. I don’t even know why there was shouting.” His eyes focussed on his coffee cup which was still half full on the table. It was still steaming.

Grantaire’s head was about to explode. He just couldn’t understand what had just happened except that he had been so unbelievably angry, angrier than he had been in years. He wasn’t entirely sure who his anger was directed at either. 

He was angry with himself, especially for shouting at Enjolras. He couldn’t believe he had done that. The guy had come here for support, not to be judged.

He was annoyed with Enjolras for giving up, for wanting to sweep everything under the carpet, for letting Patrick get away with what he did.

He was livid with Patrick for even thinking he could do something like that to anyone, least of all Enjolras.

But mostly he was furious with himself for being a hypocrite like Enjolras had said. Of course Enjolras wouldn’t listen to him; hadn’t he done exactly the same thing before? He had made excuses not to do anything about his father’s behaviour, he had insisted he could handle it and he had made Enjolras promise not to tell anyone. But he was haunted by the fact that those decisions had cost his mother her life and very nearly his own.

Now he had driven Enjolras out of the flat to who knows where and it was all his fault.

Jehan regarded him with steady green eyes. He needed Grantaire to tell him exactly what was going on here. More than that, he needed to know if this was going to be a regular problem if they asked Enjolras to move in.

“It’s my fault,” he said finally. Jehan didn’t reply, he just waited. “He said he didn’t want to go to the police about Patrick. I wasn’t…,” he gesticulated to the air with his hands, twisting his face so that he didn’t start crying again. “I wasn’t as supportive of his decision as I could have been.”

“Oh darling,” Jehan pressed a kiss to the inky curls, squeezing the man’s shoulders tightly.

“It’s going to be ok. Courf has gone after him. We’ll sit down and talk it out and it’ll be sorted. Ok?”

Dear Jehan, he worked so hard and always knew what to say but on this occasion Grantaire just didn’t feel anything other than hollow. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to run to the nearest airport and get a plane to the furthest destination possible or whether he simply needed to go punch something.

“ I -” he moved to stand up, rubbing his face with his hands. “I’m supposed to meet Bahorel at the gym.” 

Jehan slid off the sofa in surprise at Grantaire’s sudden movement but he let him go. Grantaire grabbed his gym bag out of his room left without a backward glance.

“Well fuck,” Jehan swore into the silence of the flat.

+

Bahorel was surprised to find Grantaire already in the gym, training with the punching bag. His skin was flushed and sweaty as though he had been there for a while.

He and Feuilly had received a phone call on Saturday morning from Combeferre telling them what had happened to Enjolras. He had taken a bit of convincing not to go and hunt the fucker down and, seeing the state of his sparring partner this morning, he still wasn’t sure he had made the right choice.

Grantaire was usually a relaxed and fluid boxer. But now his shoulders were taut and fixed, his face drawn and his eyes were dark black holes that bore into the punchbag. When Bahorel first greeted him, the man showed no sign of having heard him.

“Hey, mate,” Bahorel reached out to touch the guy’s shoulder and prompty ducked out of the way as Grantaire swung at him messily. Bahorel grabbed his wrists.

“What the fuck -” he felt Grantaire yield in his hands almost immediately, backing away like a startled animal. Bahorel released him, eyeing him warily.

“Sorry,” Grantaire’s eyes were everywhere; the floor, the ceiling, over the rest of the gym. He pulled one his arms around him, rubbing nervously at his other elbow. He bounced nervously on the balls of his feet. Everything about him screamed distraction and distress. Bahorel knew he wouldn’t fight him in this state or they would both end up doing something stupid.

“Look, mate, I’m not sure this is such a good idea,” he said as softly as he could manage. Grantaire finally looked at him and Bahorel was appalled at the emotion he found there.

“I understand you’ve had a rough couple of days but you’re not in the right frame of mind for this right now.” He was surprised when the other man nodded his agreement. He indicated the benches against the gym wall and they both went to sit down.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Bahorel hated talking about things; he preferred to bash them out but as that obviously wasn’t a productive option right now, listening and talking would have to do. He couldn’t, in good conscience, just let his mate walk out of here like this. He blatantly needed something or someone right now and in the absence of better listeners it fell to him on this occasion. 

“I’ve done something really stupid,” he said, taking a long gulp from his water bottle. Bahorel tried to suppress his wince, wondering what was coming.

+

Grantaire was grateful to Bahorel for having an ounce of common sense. Now that he thought about it, his knuckles were rather raw from where he had been pummelling the bag. He wasn’t quite sure how long he had been there; he had been far too lost in his own head.

He couldn’t stop thinking about what would happen if Enjolras went back to Patrick, if Enjolras forgave Patrick and they worked it out until the next time. He wondered how many ‘next times’ it would take for Enjolras to stop; except that Enjolras never stopped. He always saw the best in people, always fought to win. 

He told Bahorel about the fight, about what Enjolras had said and about Enjolras leaving. He saw Bahorel sigh with disappointment, the slight shake of the head.

“You two need to get a fucking grip on yourselves,” he said but not unkindly. 

“Look, why don’t you go to Sheffield for a few days, go see your grandparents. Let the air clear down here. We’ll speak to Enjolras and try and find the best way forward from there, yeah?”

It was a good idea. Getting out of the flat was a great idea because then Enjolras would still have a safe place to be and, even better, Grantaire wouldn’t be there to make him think twice about using it. Jehan and Courf could probably use a break from his crap as well, he was sure. Yeah, he’d go to Sheffield.

He shook hands with Bahorel who insisted on pulling him in for a bone-crusher. Bahorel told him to take care of himself and to let him know when he got there safely.

He popped home briefly to grab a few things. He was grateful that the flat was empty. On his way to the station he called Eponine.

“Wotcha, boss!” she answered cheerfully.

“I’m going to Sheffield,” he said, trying to keep his voice businesslike, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. Eponine wasn’t fooled.

“Is this an Enjolras thing or a Grandma thing?” she clarified, her voice betraying her concern. 

“The former,” he said, his fingers hovering over the ticket choice. He thought about buying a return but in the end he selected a single. Slotting his card into the ticket machine, he frivolously shelled out the extra for a first class ticket. 

“I need you to completely clear my schedule.” There was a stunned silence at the other end of the phone.

“When you say you’re going to Sheffield – is that a euphemism? You’re coming back, right?”

Grantaire bit his lip as he considered. He fished his ticket out from the machine.

“I’ll give you a ring when I get there, ok?” He terminated the call before she could answer and promptly turned it off. It was a shit thing to do and he knew it but he just didn’t have the energy to think right now.

+

Eponine listened angrily as Grantaire’s phone cut straight to voicemail. She looked at the time. It wasn’t quite five o’clock in New York right now but she dialled Cosette’s number anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After all, it was all going a little too well... 
> 
>  
> 
> Rusyn is spoken in the Ukraine, Slovakia, Poland, Hungary and a few other eastern European countries. 
> 
> Chapter title is taken from "Should You Die First" by Annabelle Despard
> 
> Also, just to clarify, there are a *lot* of misunderstandings going on here between Enjolras and R. Enjolras does not want to go back to Patrick, he just doesn't want anything done in an official capacity. However, R is terrified that Enjolras's inactivity means that he wants to "give it another go".
> 
> Similarly, Enjolras does not think he's better than R or that people like himself don't get themselves mixed up in abusive relationships - this is a paranoia of R's. He feels his own inadequacy and is projecting onto Enjolras, especially after what Enjolras shouts in the heat of the moment.
> 
> R was denied justice - his own abuser took the coward's way out and never faced trial so R never got closure in that sense and I think he would have liked to have seen the man pronounced guilty. He can't understand why someone else wouldn't want the same vindication. That's what Enjolras means when he says "I'm not you" - he doesn't feel the need for that closure at this point in time.
> 
> Also, bless Bahorel for giving "talking" a chance. I bet he wished it was Feuilly or Jehan or Combeferre there instead.


	12. Monsters Under the Bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "All he could hear was Enjolras shouting at him over and over again. He thought about the tang of fear in Eponine’s voice, the tired look on Jehan’s face. He could imagine the look of disappointment from Combeferre. It would be better for everyone if he just went to Sheffield and stayed there. That way all their lives could go back to normal. It would be better for them in the long run."
> 
> Grantaire returns to Sheffield

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for knives and violence

Trains, Grantaire had decided, were his least favourite thing.

He hated the smell, the steady boring rhythm as they rocked back and forth. He hated the forced cheeriness of the staff. He wished he could just apparate in his grandparent’s front garden.

He had plugged in his earphones as soon as he had found his seat, but the battery on his MP3 player had run out just as they pulled out of Loughborough, so for the rest of the journey he had been at the mercy of his thoughts.

All he could hear was Enjolras shouting at him over and over again. He thought about the tang of fear in Eponine’s voice, the tired look on Jehan’s face. He could imagine the look of disappointment from Combeferre. It would be better for everyone if he just went to Sheffield and stayed there. That way all their lives could go back to normal. It would be better for them in the long run.

It was dark when he arrived. He seriously considered walking but his heart was heavy and his feet didn’t appear to be co-operating as they led him over to the taxi rank. Ten minutes later he was paying the driver and stepping onto the curb outside his grandparent’s blue front door.

In the time it took him to wrestle his door keys from the bottom of his bag, he tried to come up with a decent excuse as to his sudden appearance on a Sunday evening. As he stepped into the house, enjoying the wash of warm air, he called out a hello into the hallway. He expected his grandparents would be in the front room, watching some ghastly soap on the TV, in all likelihood.

“I’m sorry I didn’t ring ahead,” he called out, dropping his bag and closing the door behind him. “Just needed to get away for a few –“ He stopped talking, his eyes trained on a red back pack already in the hallway. His head snapped up as his grandfather emerged from the kitchen, his eyes full of caution. Grantaire took a step back.

For a moment he seriously considered the possibility that he had fallen asleep on the train and that any moment he was about to be rudely shaken back to consciousness by an irate train guard. Stepping into the hallway behind his grandfather, looking like he had only recently stopped crying, was Enjolras.

“Right.”

It took him a second to realise the disembodied voice had actually originated from himself. He saw his grandfather take a step forward, but before his brain and his mouth could catch up with his eyes, his feet had already made a decision and were turning him around and walking him back out through the front door.

He made it all the way to the end of the driveway before the front door reopened behind him and he heard his grandfather’s voice call out to him. Still his feet kept on walking, his brain having long since given up and handed over control to any other part of him that wanted to make decisions.

“Don’t you ignore me, lad.” Grantaire froze. All the hairs on the back of his neck shot up and his shoulders shuddered, cringing.

His grandfather had never shouted at him. Not once. Not when he had refused to eat for three days after being discharged from the hospital; not when he had snuck in with a boy at three o’clock in the morning on a college night. Not even when he had drunk his way through his hidden stash of vodka behind the dishwasher.

His grandfather caught up with him, reaching out slowly and gently to rest a hand on his shoulder. He could hear the old man wheezing in the cold night air and he felt a stab of guilt as he realised the man was still in his slippers.

“I’m sorry, son,” the man said quietly, soothingly, “but you needed to stop.”

Grantaire’s grip on reality had long since vanished. He was standing in the dark in a street in Sheffield with his Granddad who was in his slippers while Enjolras stood in his house.

“What’s he doing here?” he asked, his eyes wide. He didn’t understand. He was being haunted; a player in a game where no one had explained the rules. Enjolras was in London so he left London. Now Enjolras was in Sheffield. His Granddad squeezed his shoulder, taking a deep breath.

“How about you and I go for a drink and we can talk it over, eh?”

+

“Look’s like they’ll be a while. They’re heading towards the White Rose.” Elsa stepped away from the net curtains and turned back to smile at the young man before her. Enjolras was too exhausted to respond.

After running out of the flat that morning, he had stumbled onto a bus almost immediately, taking him back to his building. The caretaker had been slightly taken aback by his sudden appearance but agreed to let him in to his flat.

As soon as he stepped through the door he knew it had been a mistake. His flat was pretty much destroyed. He could have wept. It looked as though an army had stormed through, leaving chaos and destruction in its wake.

All the books had been tipped off their shelves and onto the floor. His clothes were out of their drawers. All his shampoo and shower gels had been emptied into the bath tub. It was obviously Patrick’s doing.

He ran into the bedroom where his bed had been covered in red paint. He ignored it and instead threw open the doors to the wardrobe which was, of course, empty. He stared at the back of it, feeling hollow.

Eight months ago he had hidden his most prized possession in the back of this wardrobe. Now he slowly scanned the room, looking for any sign of it. He found it in the kitchen, propped up against the washing machine. The glass was smashed and it was barely inside its frame, but the Trafalgar Sketch itself seemed none the worse for its adventures.

He sat on the kitchen floor, gently extracting the paper from its ruined display. He ran a light finger over it, checking it for any obvious grazes or marks. There was a slight tear on the left hand side but otherwise it was as good as the day Aire had given it to him.

He stared around at the destruction. Spotting his red ruck sack on the side, he grabbed one of his old folders and gently placed the precious drawing inside. He then grabbed as many clean clothes as he could see, fished his spare car keys from the key hook and headed back out of the flat and down the stairs, away from the carnage, away from reality.

He knew exactly where he wanted to be right now. Just under three hours later, he pulled up outside a familiar blue front door.

+

Grantaire and his Granddad sat in a quiet corner of the pub by themselves, rather than in their usual spots at the bar. He listened as his grandfather told him that Enjolras had been with them for about two hours. He had called them from a service station and asked if they would mind if he came to visit them. It was only once he had arrived that he told them all that had been going on in London.

Grantaire felt sick. Every bone in his body was screaming at him to run. That was his defence mechanism. He didn’t do confrontation; he left, filling in the gaps for himself. Now he seemed to have run right into himself rather than away as intended.

“Don’t you have anything to say, lad?” His grandfather’s tone was gentle but concerned, his eyes full of anxiety. Grantaire thought his heart might actually break.

When he had come up here he’d had no intention of inflicting his troubles on his relatives. His poor Grandmother was about to start another round of chemotherapy on Thursday. They just didn’t need the stress.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, unable to stop a treacherous tear that escaped. He saw the surprise on his grandfather’s face. He hastily swiped the damned thing away from his cheek, conscious that he was in a public setting.

“Eh, now, lad,” the man shook his head with a heavy sigh. “There’s nowt to be sorry for. We’re just worried is all.”

+

Eventually he was persuaded to return to the house. On reflection, there was no where else to go. His bag was still in the hallway and it was far too late on a Sunday night to be thinking of returning to London. His Granddad motioned for him to go into the living room where his Gran and Enjolras were watching an episode of Miss Marple. At sight of him, she stood up and wrapped him up in a hug.

“Oh, my lad,” she chatted calmingly into his ear, patting his cheek with her hands. “What are you about, eh?” and then she suddenly called out in quite a different voice “stay there!” and he couldn’t help but shiver.

He pulled back to see a guilty-looking Enjolras halfway out the living room door.

She stood back, hands on her hips, staring seriously at them both.

“You’re a right pair,” she lectured. Her voice was grave but not loud and with no force behind it. She made it clear that she wasn’t angry or taking sides, but that whatever had gone on, she expected them to work together and help each other. Grantaire bowed his head, not daring to look up at the young man to his left. After a moment she sighed.

“We can talk about this properly tomorrow, but for now you can shake on it and go to bed,” she stated, laying down the law in a tone not to be contradicted.

Grantaire took a deep breath and turned to look at Enjolras. He held out his hand, chewing his bottom lip. Enjolras, for his part, looked back at him, his face pale and his eyes tired. He took Grantaire’s proffered hand.

“I’m sorry I yelled at you.” Grantaire murmured.

“I’m sorry I yelled at you too,” Enjolras replied.

Then the pair of them were whisked off; one to the spare room upstairs, the other to his old bedroom down stairs.

It was only 8:30pm but Grantaire was beyond tired. He ignored the duvet cover and sheets that had been laid out for him, more than content to lie on the bare mattress.

He would happily have surrendered to sleep right then and there if his conscience hadn’t been prickling him. He negotiated his phone out of the bottom of his bag and switched it on. Immediately a flood of missed calls and messages came through. There were two missed calls from Eponine, five from Jehan, four from Courfeyrac and six from Bahorel.

There were three emails from Cosette; the last one advised him that if he hadn’t made contact by six o’clock Monday morning then not only would she be on the first flight to the UK but she would have no qualms at all declaring him a missing person to the police.

He fired off a quick reply to say that he was safe and that she could call in a bit if she liked but that he had to make a few grovelling calls of his own.

He flicked through his phone book, trying to decide who to ring first. As it happened, he only needed to make the one call.

Eponine picked up after the first ring.

“You complete fucking bastard!” she practically screamed down the phone, causing him to hold it away from his ear. He sighed, rubbing his forehead. He guessed he deserved that.

To his surprise, he heard Courf shout out in the background.

“Is that him? Give me the phone, I’m going to kill him.” This was followed by a series of noises indicating a battle for control. He guessed Eponine must have conceded or else was too pissed off to continue her tirade as it was Courfeyrac’s voice that came down the line next, clear as a bell and just as angry as his predecessor.

“Jehan is CRYING here, Grantaire, what the fuck?” Grantaire cringed at the anger, frustration and worry that coloured his flatmate’s tone. Before he could answer, Courf was babbling at him at high speed. Feuilly, Joly, Bossuet and Marius were at their flat; Combeferre and Bahorel were out searching the streets.

“Bahorel knows where I am,” he interrupted. If he wasn’t mistaken there was something of an awkward silence at the other end of the line. There were more nondescript noises and suddenly Feuilly’s smooth voice could be heard.

“Are you safe, mate?” he asked, no judgement in his tone at all. Grantaire sighed, trying to get his heartbeat back together.

“Yeah, I’m in Sheffield. Bahorel knew I was going – it was his idea,” he tried to explain, feeling very nervous about what was going on in his absence. He heard Feuilly mutter something to someone but before he could interrupt the guy was back on the line.

“Listen, there’s something you need to know. Don’t freak out, ok? Just, deep breaths.” Grantaire thought he might explode when Feuilly paused for far longer than necessary.

“We can’t find Enjolras.”

He couldn’t suppress the slight hiccough of laughter that escaped his lips as the full weight of the ridiculousness of his day crashed round his ears. Of course, Enjolras had no phone. They all thought he was in London somewhere. Enjolras had run off to Sheffield without telling anyone.

“It’s not funny,” Feuilly frowned down the phone, unsure of this strange reaction. Of all the ways he expected Grantaire to take the news that his recently injured ex whom he had recently argued with had apparently disappeared off the face of the planet, laughter had not been in the top ten.

“He’s here,” he gasped, trying to be understood, happy to provide them with some good news. “Enjolras is here, in Sheffield. He got here before I did. No idea why, but he’s definitely here.” He heard Feuilly shout the news to the rest of the room.

He heard Jehan let out a shriek, more swearing from Courfeyrac and a general chatter of delight from the others in the room. It sounded quite the gathering and he suddenly found himself aching for home. It was an unfamiliar sensation. He’d never really had a home apart from the two years spent in this very room.

Grantaire filled Feuilly in on the rest of his day. He promised to make it first priority tomorrow morning to get Enjolras to call someone. He listened with horror as Feuilly told him that Combeferre had gone round to Enjolras’s flat and found the place had been turned over. Feuilly had called in a few favours and the locks had already been changed but it had shaken everyone up no end.

“You are coming back, aren’t you?” Feuilly asked lightly. Grantaire didn’t even have to think about his response.

“Yes, probably in the next day or so, depending on what happens tomorrow. But yeah, assuming Jehan and Courf will still have me –“ Feuilly interrupted him, assuring him that was not a problem. He also had a personal message from Bahorel; if he ever pulled that shit again he would have no heart, lungs or liver left, never mind kidneys. Grantaire couldn’t help but smile.

+

Cosette didn’t yell or swear. She simply told him he was lucky to have the friends he did. She didn’t keep him on the phone long but made it abundantly clear that she was thoroughly unimpressed with the whole episode. She parted with this final thought:

“You’re forgiven of course, darling. Just don’t do it again.”

+

The knife flashed dangerously in the light and it was absolutely terrifying. Grantaire didn’t think he had ever been this scared in his entire life. All his attention was drawn to the blade. Then he was aware of the most remarkable sensation, it quite took his breath away. It was like being punched but deeper than that. His whole body screamed at him.

The monster withdrew and all he could do was stare at the ceiling and wait to die. He felt the warmth of the blood on his hands, the pain in his abdomen, the struggle to draw breath.

He looked up as an angel swam into focus. An angel with golden curls, blue eyes and the softest lips which kissed his bloodied hand. He knew this angel’s name, of course. This one, who had come to collect his soul. _Enjolras_.

Grantaire woke with a start, stumbling out of bed to his bathroom and only just making it before he was sick. The acidic burn in his throat and mouth was almost welcome, reminding him of what was reality and what was dream.

He remembered.

He remembered the sound. He could hear his father’s breath, he could feel the knife. He knew what had happened. He closed his eyes and the image of Enjolras appeared before him. Enjolras’s sweet kiss and murmured words. Those eyes, full of despair because Enjolras knew Grantaire was about to die.

He _remembered_.

He rinsed his mouth with water and returned to the empty basement room. He doubted he had woken anyone with his cries; the place was almost completely sound proof. He grabbed the duvet off the bed and dragged it upstairs to the living room.

He dropped down on to the sofa, pulling the duvet over the top of him, flicking on the television and settling on some shark documentary. He hoped the soft grumblings of the narrator would drown out his own internal screams.

+

Enjolras couldn’t sleep.

The bed was very comfortable but he hadn’t slept in a single since before he had moved out from his parent’s house. The sheets were cosy but foreign. He missed the wild chaos of Aire’s room, Jehan’s soft cough through the wall, Aire’s snores from the living room. Most of all he missed the scent of the sheets and how safe he felt wrapped up in them.

Judging by the sound of the pipes indicating running water elsewhere in the house, he wasn’t the only occupant awake. He crept from the room and tiptoed down the stairs. He was drawn towards the blue glowing light emitting from the living room, indicating someone was watching TV.

Aire’s curls stuck out from the top of the duvet. He shifted when the door creaked, looking to see who was coming in. Enjolras murmured an apology. To his surprise, Aire didn’t turn away. Instead, he rolled into a sitting position, making room for Enjolras on the sofa.

“I’m watching a fascinating programme on sharks,” he whispered, gesticulating towards the TV. “Any minute now that hapless seal is going to be lunch.”

Sure enough, a Great White Shark swept up from the deep and the sea turned red. Aire let out a gleeful chuckle. He looked sideways at Enjolras, his head slightly inclined, before he grabbed the duvet and chucked it over the blonde man’s legs. Enjolras snuggled into the warmth.

“Can I ask,” he started, turning to face Aire who eyed him with a certain apprehension. “What’s your new tattoo? I caught a glimpse of it this morning…” he trailed off, not wanting to go over the events of earlier today just yet. Aire grinned, twisting to give Enjolras a better view of his shoulder.

“It’s ‘Рцы’ – it’s a rolled R in Russian,” he said, pleased when Enjolras laughed. It was like a light going on, that smile. Aire wished he could make it happen more often.

“About today,” Enjolras cleared his throat, trying to ignore the way Aire winced at the topic choice.

“It’s fine, Enjolras.” Aire’s voice was emotionless, his eyes back on the sharks. Enjolras fiddled with his fingers.

“You told me, once, that you didn’t want to be defined by what your father did to you,” he continued, not looking at the man next to him. When he wasn’t interrupted he continued.

“I’m the same. I don’t want to be defined by what Patrick did to me.”

There was a pause. He could see Aire’s profile in the glow of the television. He could practically hear the cogs going round in that brilliant brain. Finally, the man spoke.

“It’s your choice, of course. I should be supportive of whatever that choice is.”

Enjolras understood, then, why Aire had been so angry, why he had said what he had said. He closed his eyes as the realisation washed over him. It was another argument about choice.

“I’m sorry you never got the option,” he whispered, reaching out to take Aire’s hand, and inherently grateful when the other man didn’t pull away. “I know you think I’ve picked the wrong choice –“

“- but you’re not me.” Aire finished his sentence, turning to look at Enjolras properly. Enjolras was surprised at how calm the brown eyes were. They weren’t angry or cloudy or guarded. They were just calm and understanding.

“I didn’t mean to be cruel,” he insisted, blushing at his own poor choice of words. Only Aire had ever had that effect on him. He saw Aire crook a smile at him in the half-dark.

“It’s not the wrong choice for you. I’ll stand by you whatever you decide, Enjolras.”

+

Elsa was slightly disconcerted to find Enjolras’s bed empty in the morning when she called to see if he wanted a cup of tea. However, upon reaching the living room her worry evaporated. Both her boys were fast asleep under a duvet, the television talking to itself in the background. She was even prepared to overlook the fact that her slovenly grandson had not bothered to put the cover on like he had promised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This marks a shift in the pattern - Enjolras and R are finally running in the same direction (yay)
> 
> White Rose is an excellent name for a Yorkshire pub (although this one is entirely fictional)
> 
> Enjolras ran to Sheffield because his parents were in Australia, and even if they weren't he would be more likely to go to Elsa in Yorkshire than to them. They have become firm friends while R has been off in America and Europe. Sheffield has become just as much his "safe place" as R's.
> 
> Back in London, after Eponine rang Cosette to say that R had apparently run off to Sheffield and may not be coming back, she rang Jehan. Meanwhile Courf had been unable to track down Enjolras and so he rang Combeferre who popped round to Enjolras's flat. He missed Enjolras but let himself in with his own key which is how he discovered all the mess. With both of the boys AWOL and not answering their phones, they decided to set up base camp at Jehan and Courf's flat, while Combeferre and Bahorel went in search of Enjolras.
> 
> All's well that end's well? 
> 
> Not that it's over yet...


	13. Who Broke Those Mirrors and Tossed Them Shard By Shard Among the Branches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone goes on a jolly for Enjolras's birthday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's nothing nasty in this chapter at all.

When Enjolras and Grantaire cautiously opened the door to the flat, they were instantly set upon by a shrieking Jehan. Eponine followed slowly down the hallway with a smirk on her face that told them she was glad to see them, but boy were they in trouble.

Enjolras had spent twenty minutes on the phone with Courfeyrac that morning, during which time he hadn’t really said all that much. From what Grantaire understood, it had started out as the most phenomenal lecture and had ended with Enjolras agreeing to move in with Courf, Jehan and Aire in the short to medium term; at least until he found somewhere else more suitable. They had also agreed to return home that day.

The general consensus amongst the group was that Enjolras would be unwise to stay in his flat, even with the new locks. It would be far easier to make a clean break and move out. It had been settled that everyone would chip in to help sort the flat out so that Enjolras would at least get his deposit back. 

Enjolras had tried to protest, insisting that he didn’t mind, and definitely didn't want to put anyone to any trouble. However, these objections were half-hearted. Inside he was grateful and relieved that he wouldn’t have to go back to living in that flat on his own. 

Aire had furnished him with some scrambled eggs for breakfast, bringing some colour back into his cheeks. After some final words of wisdom from Elsa, not to mention the brief political discussion about how Aire was getting home (“just get in the damned car and shut up”), they had hit the motorway.

Back in the flat, they found that Jehan had already, more or less, packed up his belongings with Eponine’s help. She had volunteered the use of the office at the studio as a secure storage location as well as potential quiet spot if he needed to get away to write. Jehan grabbed Enjolras by the hands, wanting to give him the guided tour of his new space.

In the meantime, Eponine took Grantaire to one side for a quiet word.

Grantaire decided that Eponine was a complete saint. She had ignored his instructions and had only cancelled his appointments up until Wednesday so his professional reputation was still more or less intact. She had also made sure that the next six weekends in the run up to Christmas and the New Year were free, giving him some much needed down-time and flexibility. He also had a doctor’s appointment for Tuesday . 

“You managed to scare the shit out of Cosette, so I guess congratulations?” she quirked an eyebrow, her eyes betraying how worried she had been despite the angry twitch to her lips. “She wants you to take it easy for a bit, says you’re working too hard.” He opened his mouth to argue but she silenced him with a glare.

“Just, stop trying to deal with this on your own.” The way she briefly reached out her arm to brush his elbow told him that someone must have filled her in on the full picture. He possibly would have been angry about that, if he wasn’t so relieved about everything else. All he could do was nod.

+

When Courf came home, he brought with him Bahorel and Marius, the former laughing hard, the latter flushed pink yet smiling.

Upon sight of Enjolras, Courf took him by the shoulders to get a good look at him before pulling him in for a hug. There was no respite for Grantaire as Bahorel manoeuvred him into a headlock and ruffled his curls aggressively. 

The group of friends made their way into the living room, chatting loudly. There were plans afoot for making a start at getting some of Enjolras’s things from his old flat. Bahorel had the new keys from Feuilly as well as some boxes for easy transportation, meanwhile Marius had agreed to come along and help with some of the heavy lifting. Enjolras looked round the room at his friends, somewhat overwhelmed. His eyes finally met Aire’s who smiled calmly back at him, a reassuring glance that gave him the courage to swallow the lump that was forming in his throat.

“Right,” he said bracingly, getting to his feet. “Let’s do this.”

+

Jehan had made a start on the flat while the lock keeper had been working on Sunday, but it was still a horrible mess. The books were now stacked rather than scattered, and the bed had been completely stripped. Enjolras looked around, his heart heavy. Well, he had better get started because it couldn’t get much worse. Courfeyrac cleared his throat, awkwardly.

“Look, you should know, Patrick came to the office today.” Aire’s eyes shot sideways to see how Enjolras reacted. Eponine crossed her arms while Jehan took a step closer to Courf. Bahorel and Marius stood by, their faces serious as they recalled the incident.

Enjolras was very still, his face almost expressionless but Aire spotted the slight contraction of the pupils. Then Enjolras turned slowly away on the pretext of picking up some things off the floor.

“What did he look like once Bahorel had finished with him?” It was Aire’s dry voice which broke the silence, his gaze still on Enjolras. He was surprised when his friend barked a laugh.

“I didn’t get a chance,” he spat ruefully, sending a look over to Marius who was now blushing furiously under his freckles. “Marius, here, put me to shame. I thought he was going to kneecap him.”

All eyes swerved to Marius who smiled shyly and Bahorel clapped him on the back. Enjolras even managed a small smile.

“Read him the riot act, didn’t you!” beamed Courfeyrac, full of pride.

“Don’t worry, he won’t be coming back,” Marius said earnestly. “Plus I think having Bahorel behind me practically dying to get his hands round the guy’s neck probably helped.” He said most of his speech to the floor, embarrassed by all the attention. 

Enjolras crossed the room, holding out his hand which Marius took in surprise. They had never been especially close and sometimes his words in the past had been harsh, but right now Enjolras had never been happier to count Marius as his friend and colleague.

+

Unsurprisingly, there was to be a whole host of people round for dinner that night. Feuilly and Combeferre joined them as soon as they were able, helping to drag the filled boxes from Bahorel’s van up into Enjolras’s new room. 

As well as the fold-out dining table, they commandeered Jehan’s camping table so that everyone could eat together. Aire found himself in the kitchen again with a whole army of hungry people crying out for his now legendary cooking. While the others went scavenging for chairs, he and Feuilly took a walk to the shops to pick up the ingredients for a Kielbasa casserole.

As they all sat down to dinner, thoroughly exhausted but happy, they gave three cheers to Marius, the hero of the day. 

+

“The problem with having a birthday in December,” complained Courfeyrac in something of a whining tone, “is that it’s off season. Everywhere is shut.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. His birthday was upon them once again and for some unfathomable reason everyone seemed to want to do something for it. Courf was sitting on the floor of the living room having commandeered Aire’s laptop. Enjolras was cross-legged on the sofa, frowning at some case notes. 

He had been living in the flat now for four days and so far everything had gone rather well. There was a steady routine to the days as everyone went about their business. They had initially tried to make the effort to eat together but it wasn’t always possible with Jehan working unpredictable shifts while Courf and Enjolras slogged long hours at the firm. Grantaire’s hours were also becoming quite unreliable as he worked to complete a project for JVJ, despite Cosette’s warnings to slow down and take some time off.

Grantaire had been especially quiet this week. He had returned from his trip to the doctor with a new prescription and a referral for CBT which he had complained to Jehan about at length. The new meds hadn’t helped his insomnia at all and Enjolras had heard him get up in the middle of the night and leave the flat two nights in a row.

Right now, the man in question was out for the count in his room, which was why there was a sign on the front door warning Jehan to come in quietly and also why Enjolras kept his voice low when he turned to deal with Courfeyrac.

“By ‘everywhere’ I assume you mean theme parks. This is London, Courf, there’s plenty to do.”

+

“You could go bowling.” 

Aire’s somewhat facetious suggestion, whispered in Enjolras’s ear as he placed a glass of lime and soda down in front of him, was too quiet to be heard by everyone else. He allowed himself a satisfied smirk when the other man stuck his tongue out at him petulantly. 

For 8 o’clock on a Friday night, the pub was rather quiet. Bahorel and Feuilly had just finished a rather aggressive game of pool which Feuilly had won, meaning that Bahorel was now in charge of drinks for the rest of the evening. He was, even now, sourly making his way to the bar. Combeferre, much to everyone’s amusement, was trying to do some marking at the end of the table.

“What about a nice museum?” Jehan asked, his voice far too innocent.

“I am not going to the Victoria and Albert, Jehan, and that’s final,” Enjolras frowned, his lips pressing into a firm line. Jehan gave him a lofty look, as though he had no interest at all in the V&A. 

“There are other museums,” he said, his eyes closed and his nose raised. Courf dug him playfully in the ribs. Then his eyes lit up with his own idea.

“Oooh, how about the Natural History Museum,” he exclaimed, almost bouncing in his seat. “Everyone loves dinosaurs!”

There was a groan from Bahorel as he returned from the bar, two pints in hand.

“Not that fucking bug house again, no way,” he glared at Courf so fiercely the man recoiled under his gaze. Apparently the Natural History Museum was also on the no list.

Feuilly and Combeferre glanced at each other before hopefully advocating the Science Museum which was almost universally shouted down by everyone else. The British Museum was also a no-go area as Bossuet had been banned after his last visit. Although no one could remember the official reason why, the tale now told by everyone was something of a complicated mythology involving a child’s shoe, a coach full of old people and the Tutankhamen exhibition. 

In the end, it was Eponine who rescued them all from bad ideas by suggesting the London Dungeon. After a few doubtful looks from the rest of the group, Combeferre had stepped in, saying that he had helped out on a Year Eight school trip the term before last. From what he remembered it was quite fun. Enjolras shrugged, never having been, which pretty much sealed the deal.

+

The queue to get in was quite long, considering it was winter, but nobody apart from Enjolras seemed to mind. He was even less pleased to find that they were expected to have their photos taken on their way in, posing as though they were having their heads cut off.

“As if anyone would have been executed while in stocks,” he muttered. Combeferre elbowed him, trying to get him to cheer up. It almost worked, except that Courfeyrac let slip to the guy on the door that it was Enjolras’s birthday, at which point he was pretty much manhandled into the stocks and forced to have his photo taken while the whole queue sang a round of “happy birthday” at him. 

If they hadn’t been in such a public place, Courfeyrac would have been under the next London bus. From the way he was hiding behind Jehan, Courf knew it, too. Enjolras was so busy glaring at him that he failed to notice Grantaire buying one of the photos.

“The Labyrinth of the Lost,” the tour guide started, using a most mystical and dramatic voice, “a sad and lonely place where lost souls are doomed to roam ever more.”

Jehan snorted, trying to suppress his laughter as they found themselves in a dark maze of mirrors. Instantly everyone took off in different directions and Enjolras was suddenly standing alone. The mirrors were all angled differently so the reflections were very disorientating. Off to his right he heard Feuilly give an angry shout closely followed by Bahorel’s laugh, rendered spooky in the echoing maze.

Further along the way, he found Aire sitting on the floor. The man looked up as he walked towards him and just as he was about to ask if he was ok, he was stunned to see himself appear. It took him a moment to realise that Aire wasn’t there at all, it was a reflection. By the time he had turned around, Aire was on his feet, a merry smile playing about his lips.

“Wish I’d bought a pencil,” he muttered and Enjolras grinned. He could see why his friend would be attracted by the strange light and the movements in the mirrors. 

They moved forward together, turning this way and that, following the sounds of the others in the maze. At one point Eponine ran past them in the other direction, her chuckle almost ethereal. A moment later they stumbled upon Joly and Bossuet who were trying to coax Marius into moving. The man was appeared to be frozen to the spot. 

When they eventually made it to the exit they found Combeferre waiting patiently with the guide. Courf was carrying Jehan on his back and Feuilly was glaring at Bahorel who was looking extremely smug.

As they moved out of the maze, Grantaire glanced back regretfully at the mirrors, wondering if Eponine could arrange to get him in after hours for a project. There was a lot of potential to be had in those mirrors.

As they made their way through the chamber of horrors, everyone could hear Courfeyrac loudly whispering a ridiculous number of inappropriate jokes about whips and chains to a blushing Jehan. 

The section with the plague doctors had Joly casting a critical yet amused eye over the proceedings, wondering with a sort of fascinated horror how the human race had managed to survive those first shaky steps into what eventually evolved into modern medicine. 

At one point, they were all herded into a court room to be judged. Naturally, the ‘judge’ picked on Bahorel, not only for being the tallest in the room, but also because he was wearing his large spike through his left ear and his septum ring. Bahorel played along in good humour, though inevitably the whole gang of them were “condemned” for being associated with him. Feuilly seemed to think this was hilarious.

Half way through the tour, they were all guided into a room that was almost completely black and asked to sit down in chairs. Jehan’s wasn’t the only whimper heard in the room and hands reached for friendly fingers as a disembodied voice welcomed them to the barber shop of a certain Mr Todd.

Grantaire was feeling pretty relaxed in his chair, listening to the voice as it moved about the room, inviting them for a shave. He closed his eyes, allowing his ears to pick up other sounds in the room. There were shufflings and sniffings. He could hear the deep, rasping breaths of Jehan on his left. Suddenly fingers clamped down on his own right hand. He bit on his lip, forcing his hand to stay still as the hand gripped tightly in the dark. Right at the end someone let out a scream.

When they all stepped out, half blind in the harshness of the light, everyone was strangely subdued. Jehan was pale in Courf’s arms, Joly and Bossuet were clutching each other and Eponine seemed to have attached herself to Combeferre. Marius looked green enough to be sick, while Feuilly and Bahorel appeared almost dishevelled. Nobody was willing to own up to the scream. 

Enjolras shrugged loftily, walking confidently past them all and on to the Jack the Ripper exhibition, leaving Grantaire subtly running his fingers over knuckles that had so recently been released.

All in all it was agreed that the Dungeon had been a great success. As they sat on the train home, laughing and joking, Enjolras couldn’t help but smile. Grantaire moved over to sit next to him and produced a bag. He raised an eyebrow but the man said nothing, only grinning, motioning for him to open it.

Inside was a mug he had obviously bought in the gift shop. It was completely black except for red writing that said “Dungeon Master”. 

“For your coffee at work, Apollo,” Aire smirked and went to sit back down next to Eponine. Enjolras rolled his eyes, but held tightly onto the mug for the rest of the trip home.

+

The party was in full swing when Aire snuck out onto the balcony for some fresh air and a cigarette. It had been a very long day indeed.

The Dungeon had been good fun, even though he was functioning on about three hours sleep, not to mention the fact that the new medication was playing havoc with his dreams. He was now haunted nightly by the sight of Enjolras staring down at him from the ceiling, while his voice begged him to stay with him, to stay alive. He wasn’t sure what was memory and what was imagination, all he knew was that he was exhausted.

Behind him he could hear a chorus of shouts and cheers. It sounded as though the birthday boy had just been coerced into playing a drinking game. Aire sank down into one of the balcony chairs, hoping his absence may go unnoticed for a while.

He didn’t move when he heard the door slowly creak open and Jehan appeared with a coat and blanket. He grunted gratefully, having forgotten to bring his own. He lit up a cigarette and passed it over to his friend who accepted it before sitting down in the other chair.

“You should just tell him, you know,” Jehan’s lazy voice drifted out into the darkness with the smoke from his lungs. Aire didn’t feel like playing along.

“Tell who what?” he said, taking a long drag and exhaling into the night. Jehan tutted, unimpressed.

“Tell Enjolras that you love him and that you want to have lots of sex and picnics and more sex.” 

Oh, he made it sound so easy. Aire snorted, flicking his ash and taking another drag. He groaned as the balcony door opened again and Courfeyrac appeared.

“What are you lot talking about?” he said, leaning against the railing, casting a challenging look at the pair of them. Grantaire pointedly ignored him but Jehan grinned wickedly.

“About how R wants to fuck Enjolras on our breakfast bar.” Grantaire nearly choked.

“Jehan, for fuck’s sake, lower your damn voice!” he spluttered, looking anxiously towards the door. Courf laughed heartily.

“Oh hush, the birthday boy can’t hear us out here,” Jehan admonished, pouting at Grantaire’s harsh tone. He leaned back to blow a smoke ring into the night.

“Besides,” Courf added, “he’s currently playing a round of ‘I have never’ with Combeferre and Bahorel. Which reminds me – ” here he cast an approving glace at Aire which, for some reason, made him shift uneasily under his gaze. “Stock cupboard? That’s so cliché.” Grantaire flushed.

“Look,” Aire began, tugging a hand through his hair and glaring as both Courf and Jehan grinned at him, “Even if it was true, that I did… love him –” He pointedly ignored Jehan’s disbelieving snort, “he’s been through enough in the past few weeks without me making it complicated.” 

Aire stubbed out his cigarette and sighed, rubbing his forehead distractedly.

“We’ve only just got a point where we can hold a reasonable discussion without breaking out the hard weaponry. I don’t want to jeopardise that.” He looked up at the friends before him who eyed him with a combination of frustration and sympathy. Jehan got to his feet, brushing himself down.

“Suit yourself,” he shrugged, before taking Courf’s arm and returning to the party.

Grantaire sat out there for a while longer, gazing up at the sky, until a decidedly drunk Bahorel found him and dragged him back inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who said I can't write two consecutive happy chapters?
> 
> This trip to the London Dungeon is based on my visit which, I appreciate, was a couple of years ago. I understand they have (very recently) refurbished so it is entirely possible that it is no longer anything like what I just described. I assure you, the Sweeny Todd bit is absolutely terrifying.
> 
> Again, I have nothing against the V&A but really, Enjolras would hate it. The Natural History Museum is amazing but the bug house always scared the daylights out of me (and Bahorel, apparently).
> 
> Chapter title taken from "Poetry" by Saadi Youssef
> 
> *whispers* we're nearly there.


	14. Slave to Fate, Chance, Kings and Desperate Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "So he did what he always did when backed into a corner; he ran."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for strokes and hospitals

“Oh, fuck this.”

Before anyone could say anything, Aire was up, out of his chair, marching purposefully towards the door of the pub and out into the street.

It was another Friday night, two weeks before Christmas. The last three weeks had passed relatively peacefully, with everyone making a concerted effort to make the living arrangements work between them. So far they had successfully made it with no major arguments. Until this evening.

It had been Jehan who had suggested going to the pub together to celebrate the end of a rather tiring week. All four of them had trooped round the corner and for the first hour it had all gone rather well. Then someone had brought up the topic of ghosts.

This in turn led to an energetic discussion of the afterlife and near death experiences. Aire had been feeling quite warm and relaxed at this point, hardly listening as Jehan related in full how he wanted to be hypnotised to see if he could regress to discover his past selves. Courfeyrac had shuddered, saying with fervour that he just wanted to die and go the heaven and that was that. He didn’t want to go round and round for eternity. It was at this point that the tone changed, because Grantaire just had to open his mouth. 

“Take it from me, Courf,” he had said eyes bright with good humour, “there’s nothing there. No blinding lights, no St Peter with a scroll. Just nothing.” The other three had turned to look at him with differing expressions. Courf looked disappointed, Jehan looked curious but Enjolras… he looked murderous. His eyes had been hard and his pouting lower lip was pushed out further than usual. For some reason that only egged Aire on further.

“I was technically dead for a whole ten minutes and I don’t remember any white lights or pearly gates.”

Enjolras had always known how to turn the screw. He leant forward on the table, looking directly into Aire’s eyes, his own blue ones fixed and dangerous.

“So, because you don’t remember something, it doesn’t exist?” he said very quietly. “Is that what you believe? If you don’t remember it, then it can’t have happened?”

They weren’t talking about death or ghosts or the afterlife anymore and the whole table knew it.

So many emotions washed over Aire at that moment. There was anger, resentment, remorse. He felt stubborn, petulant, frustrated and sorry. So very sorry. Sorry for bringing it up, sorry for being flippant, sorry that Enjolras had to have gone through it all in the first place.

He felt frustrated because he wanted to be able to have conversations about death without everyone getting all guarded around him. If he wanted to be dismissive about his own near-death experience then surely he should reserve that right? It kept it at arms length, the reality of it all just out of reach. 

Except that it hadn’t been him pumping furiously at his boyfriend’s lifeless body, scared out of his wits. He hadn’t been living with those memories for eight years. 

He understood completely where Enjolras was coming from, but he also knew something that Enjolras didn’t. 

_Aire also remembered_.

So he did what he always did when backed into a corner; he ran.

He wasn’t going to go far; just home, or maybe the studio. He had made promises to quite a few people about this; to Jehan, Bahorel, his grandparents and his doctor. He had to stop walking away from people. If he needed to get away, fine, but his safe place needed to be a bit closer than Sheffield. He needed to learn to communicate with people and let them communicate with him. All of this poured through his mind as he paced towards the flat, fuming.

His cold fingers dug into his pockets, looking for a lighter. Living with Enjolras was hard work. He was suddenly everywhere. He was constantly stumbling out of his bedroom in a pair of boxers with terrible (gorgeous) bed hair. He seemed to have a knack for exiting the bathroom with just a towel draped round his hips, water dripping from his curls in the most sinful way.

More recently he had started hanging around the kitchen, trying to coerce Aire into teaching him some of the recipes he had picked up on his travels. It was wonderful but unbearable at the same time. He was so close, it was almost too close. And now, of course, they had broken the seal and started to argue. It had only taken three weeks. 

If he rang Cosette tomorrow and asked for her to arrange a sabbatical to a different continent, would that count as breaking the “no running” rule? Maybe he could take Eponine with him. They were an excellent team and he knew she would like the opportunity to travel. He was seriously considering this as a viable option as he reached the street door to the flat.

He reached into his coat pocket to find his keys. Instead his fingers closed around his phone which suddenly started to ring. He didn’t recognise the number and almost didn’t answer, except something about the area code seemed familiar.

“Hello,” he answered, his attentions still focussed on finding his keys.

“Son? It’s your Granddad.” 

+

Back at the pub no one knew quite what to say. Both Courfeyrac and Jehan recognised that they were well out of their depths on this one

“Look, just go after him,” Courf said after a moment, weathering a glare from his friend. Jehan sighed and leaned forward, resting a hand on Enjolras’s knee.

“Enjolras. I say this as your friend and as Grantaire’s; he is never going to make the first move. So you can either carry on with this interesting dance or you can try and sort it out.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Enjolras muttered, staring sulkily at his drink. Jehan huffed at him, withdrawing his hand and folding his arms petulantly.

Enjolras was fed up. It was a stupid argument and everything had been going so well. He had loved living in the flat with everyone. He thoroughly enjoyed Courf’s terrible singing and Jehan’s music. The best thing, though, was having the opportunity to spend some proper time with Aire.

He knew he was lying to himself. He knew damn well that there was nothing platonic or friendly at all about his feelings. Aire could never just be his flatmate, and the past three weeks had just cemented that completely.

Watching him interact with Courf and Jehan was a pleasure. He saw that quite a bit had changed from the teenager he had known and loved, but he recognised quite a few old habits too, and most of the changes were for the better. He had felt their relationship blossom into something warm and comfortable.

Jehan was right, of course. Aire was giving him plenty of space. He never got too close, never went too far. He smiled and laughed but always sat on the edge of the couch next to Courf or Jehan, or on the floor by himself. It was terribly frustrating. And now they’d fought.

He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He saw it was R and declined the call automatically. He was far too frustrated to attempt a civil conversation on the phone right now.

+

“Fuck’s sake!” Aire shouted into the night, startling a couple at a nearby bus stop. He hastily scrolled through his phone book and found Courf’s number. This guy better not reject his call or so help him, he would go back to the pub and make a scene so big they’d never be able to show their faces again.

“Yeah, mate?” Courf answered cheerfully. He was always cheerful, and he didn’t know that now wasn’t the time, that Grantaire was not in any kind of mood for cheerful right now.

“Tell Enjolras that if he ever valued our friendship at all, he will get his arse back to the flat right now,” he growled into the phone. There was a short uncomfortable pause as Courf cleared his throat.

“Jeez, Taire, what’s the big problem?”

Grantaire had to suppress a sob that was building in his throat.

“My Gran just had a fucking stroke.”

+

He heard the front door bang and the sound of hastily moving feet. Enjolras ran into his bedroom and Grantaire stilled, thinking the man was about to punch him. He relaxed as he the arms went past his face and wrapped themselves round his shoulders, pulling him into a tight hug.

“Tell me everything,” he whispered into his ear. They broke apart so Aire could continue throwing some clothes into a bag.

“I don’t know much. My Granddad is with her. She finished her last cycle of chemo and he said she seemed ok but then she couldn’t speak and her face was all down on one side so he called an ambulance. They’re in the A&E now.” He spoke quickly, the words tumbling out in a rush as he stuffed one last jumper in his bag and zipped it up.

“Give me five seconds, then I’ll drive us up there. Ok?” He reached out a tentative hand to push Aire’s chin up so their eyes could meet. Aire nodded, chewing his lip. Then Enjolras was gone. 

Aire took a steadying breath, his heart thumping. He could hear Enjolras rummaging around in the next room. Shortly, he reappeared, red in the face but ready to go.

They spent the first hour in silence, two minds racing ahead to what awaited them in Sheffield. Enjolras tried to concentrate on the road ahead. Mercifully the rush hour was long over and they made it onto the M1 with little difficulty. Every so often he glanced at the man in the passenger seat, his profile lit up by passing headlights. His heart ached at the lost expression.

After ninety minutes he went to pull into the services. Aire started to protest but Enjolras was quite insistent. A ten minute break wasn’t going to make much difference. The car needed fuel, he needed the bathroom and Aire could probably use some food, if not a cigarette break.

He parked the car and turned to the man beside him, who was fiddling with his fingers.

“What you said in the pub,” Grantaire spoke quietly to his hands. Enjolras opened his mouth to interrupt, to tell him that it hardly mattered now, but Grantaire wouldn’t let him speak.

“I remember.”

Now he looked up. Now he met Enjolras’s eyes. Enjolras could only return his gaze, letting those words sink in.

“How long?” he breathed, after what felt like a lifetime of staring at each other.

“About a month. I keep dreaming about it.” Aire rubbed the back of his neck nervously. His head was too full. He needed to get some of it out. He needed Enjolras to understand.

“Tell me,” he said gently, turning in his seat so he was fully facing Grantaire. 

“I can feel it, I can hear it, I can smell it. It hurt so much. And you were there and you were… oh my god I’m so sorry,” he broke off, turning away with a shake of his head. Enjolras felt his heart break. Aire remembered. 

Instinctively he reached out a hand to the man’s shoulder, pulling him, turning him back to face him.

“Aire,” he whispered. In the darkness of the car he could just about make out those brown eyes that he loved so much. Without any thought at all he leaned forward, enjoying Aire’s small gasp as their lips met.

It was chaste and unsure. He paused, half expecting Aire to pull away. Instead, he felt the man lean towards him, melt into him. It gave him enough courage to press forward, to deepen the kiss.

He had missed these lips. He reached forward to tangle his fingers in those curls, to pull him closer. 

“This is probably a really bad time,” he muttered, punctuating each word with a kiss. “But there’s never a good time with us.” There was no response from Aire, only a soft whine as he broke away. This was swiftly followed by a groan as Enjolras kissed his way down the man’s throat.

He fisted his hands in Aire’s jacket and used it to pull himself across, out of the driver’s seat and onto Aire’s lap. He felt the man sigh, a beautiful sound that Enjolras wanted to record and play back over and over again. He felt those delightful strong hands rest at his waist, the fingers pressing into his hips.

He licked into Aire’s mouth, thrilled at the response he was getting. He wanted Aire so much right now. Unconsciously he shifted, rolling his hips. He chuckled as Aire bucked up to meet him.

“Tell me you’re not about to leave the country,” he breathed, his fingers wondering down Aire’s chest and fingering at the waist band of his trousers. Grantaire’s mind had long since given up, blood rushing elsewhere. He would quite happily have promised not to leave that car park without Enjolras’s written consent.

They moved together, reaching and grabbing, both trying to lose themselves in the other’s embrace. Enjolras felt Aire’s hands move round to grip his arse and he arched into the touch, grinding down and eliciting the most delectable sound from Aire’s throat. He reached down and palmed Aire through his jeans, making him groan wildly.

Aire didn’t have any inclination to try and analyse what was going on. Enjolras was on top of him, kissing him, licking him, sucking his neck and grinding down on top of him. He would follow Enjolras anywhere at that moment. He wanted him and he was wanted. It was enough. It was more than enough. It was amazing.

“Fuck,” he swore, his mouth catching up with the rest of him. “Fuck I want you,” he bit down on the base of Enjolras’s neck, grinning as the man hissed with pleasure. He felt Enjolras release his fly just before the man took hold of him, the sensation almost enough to make him come right there and then.

It was overwhelming. He could hear their ragged breaths over the top of the blood rushing in his ears. His fingers found their own way to Enjolras’s buttons and negotiated their way in. There was sweat and musk and heat as they both moved against each other. He thrust into Enjolras’s hand, just as Enjolras moved in his. Enjolras groaned, or maybe the groan was his, he wasn’t sure.

It was all too much. With a shout, he came in Enjolras’s hand, his back arching, presenting his throat to the blonde. As Enjolras bit down against his neck, he sped up. Enjolras ground down, his movements becoming erratic as he desperately sought his release. He allowed Enjolras to fuck his hand, before he finally came, collapsing with a whimper of Aire’s name on his lips.

They sat there, panting hard, foreheads resting together, trying to get their heartbeats back to normal. Enjolras moved first, leaning to kiss Aire firmly.

“Promise me,” he said, his voice rough with effort. Aire could only close his eyes, far too fucked out for words just yet. Enjolras kissed him again.

“I need you, Aire,” His voice was desperate, as though afraid. “The worst thing I ever did was let you walk away from me. Promise me you’ll stop. Stop walking away from me. Please.” He was still gasping for breath, his forehead pressed firmly against Aire’s. He brought both hands up to cup the man’s face. He ran his thumbs across the slightly stubbled cheekbones. He found the old scar on his jawbone. Aire opened his eyes.

“I promise.”

Enjolras sat back, apparently satisfied. He suddenly looked around as though realising for the first time where he was. A laugh escaped his lips and Aire grinned at the musical sound.

“I can’t drive like this,” he shifted back, buttoning himself up. He leaned over to grab some tissues out of the pocket in the car door. He dropped them unceremoniously onto Aire’s lap.

“We’ll clean up and grab something to eat. Then we’ll go give your Gran the great news.”

+

Twenty minutes later they were back on the motorway, both in clean clothes and feeling better for a bad coffee and a burger. Aire suddenly started laughing.

“What?” Enjolras fought to keep his eyes on the road, despite how desperate he was to see what had made Aire laugh so heartily.

“You,” he said, with such warm and affection in his voice that Enjolras blushed. “It’s always you.”

+

They reached the hospital just after midnight. Enjolras switched off the engine and turned to face the man beside him. He took his hand, lacing their fingers together. He drew the knotted mass to his lips and kissed them softly.

“Together,” he murmured. Aire nodded. _Together._

They were shown into the cubical by a member of the A&E staff. His Grandfather moved to get off his chair and embraced his grandson before shaking Enjolras’s hand warmly.

His Grandmother looked so small on the hospital trolley bed. He reached forward and took her frail hand in his. At his touch she opened her eyes.

“She still can’t speak,” his Granddad advised, quietly. He nodded, not taking his eyes from the woman in the bed. 

He wasn’t sure how he felt. It had only been a few weeks since they had all been sitting round the kitchen table, eating scrambled eggs and being admonished for their childish behaviour. He fought to keep the tears back as he gently squeezed her hand.

“Hey, Gran,” he whispered, trying to keep his voice light. “Guess what?”

He reached out to his right for Enjolras who was by his side in a second. They linked hands and Aire allowed his eyes to close for a moment, relishing the sensation of their palms pressed together. He raised his arm, dragging Enjolras with his so that their clasped hands were directly in his Grandmother’s line of sight. She let out a soft noise of approval and she struggled to pull her face into a smile.

He took a deep shuddering breath. Whatever happened, he was with all the important people in his life right now. He could do this.

With Enjolras by his side, he could do anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is taken from "Death Be Not Proud" by John Donne which is definitely one of my favourite poems (Betjeman's "In A Bath Teashop" comes a close second)
> 
> hopefully that was a nice surprise?


	15. Both, For A Moment, Little Lower Than The Angels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Those fumbled moments in a service station car park had turned his whole life on its head. He knew that it would probably involve a conversation at some point but right now he really couldn’t care less. He had Enjolras in his arms."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for hospitals and talk of strokes

Aire woke in his old bed in the basement with a combination of conflicting emotions. Seeing his Grandmother so fragile and vulnerable last night had been terrifying. She was usually such a pillar of strength to everyone. She had mostly slept, waking occasionally, trying to make herself understood as nurses came to read the machines and take her blood pressure while they were brought endless cups of tea. His Grandfather had sat quietly, thanking them all, but his eyes never left his wife.

Eventually, Elsa had been moved up to a ward at about three o’clock in the morning. The doctors were satisfied with her progress so far and in the morning efforts would be made to move her to a specialist stroke unit.

With promises to return the following day, Enjolras had driven Aire and his grandfather home. He had insisted on finding clean sheets for the bed, pillows and duvet, even though Aire would have been more than happy to sleep on the unmade mattress. They collapsed into bed together, exhausted, sleep upon them almost as soon as their heads met the pillows.

In his arms, Enjolras stirred, which brought him back to the other end of the spectrum of his feelings. Happy was too small a word for him. Elated and ecstatic came slightly closer. Those fumbled moments in a service station car park had turned his whole life on its head. He knew that it would probably involve a conversation at some point but right now he really couldn’t care less. He had Enjolras in his arms.

Enjolras asleep was quite a sight to behold. As much as he loved those blue eyes it was a pleasure to see his forehead untroubled by creases, eyelashes resting gently on his cheeks. Enjolras asleep was Enjolras at peace.

Aire fought back the unbidden images of Enjolras bleeding on his doorstep, Enjolras afraid, on his knees begging Aire to live. He concentrated on the soft curve of his red lips, the lines of his nose, the tumbled curls on his forehead. This was a moment of bliss. Aire, for once, felt whole.

+

Enjolras couldn’t stay. He wanted to, oh how he wanted to. He wanted to be at Aire’s side, constantly. He wanted to hold the man’s hand at the hospital. He definitely didn’t want to drive all the way home by himself. 

Unfortunately real life beckoned. He had case notes to review for Monday and he had already taken a fair amount of impromptu time off recently. If he had any intention of keeping his job, it was in his best interests to return to London.

He stood in the hallway of the Griffiths’ house, his hands framing Aire’s face, their foreheads pressed as they breathed together. He could feel the welcome warmth of R’s hands on his lower back, holding them close.

They murmured collectively, making promises into the small amount of air between their lips. They would call when Enjolras got home. They would speak every night of the week. Aire should call Enjolras if he needed to. He was only a car journey away.

Enjolras’s eyes were screwed shut with pain. He was leaving a piece of his soul behind. To have captured all that he wanted, and then be parted from it so soon, was just cruel. But it was temporary. 

“I’ll be back next weekend. The time will fly by, you just wait and see,” he whispered, not sure who he was trying to convince more.

“Look at me,” Aire’s request was soft but irresistible. He forced his eyes open. The wealth of emotion he met was overwhelming. He could see love in those brown eyes and he hoped Aire could recognise it just as much from his blue ones.

“I love you.”

+

“Oh my goodness!”

Jehan’s hands flew to his mouth as soon as Enjolras wondered into the living room. He stared at Enjolras, looking him over, his green eyes going through him like x-rays, reading him completely. Enjolras dropped his eyes to the floor, embarrassed.

Jehan was up and off the sofa in a moment, squeezing his friend tightly. When he pulled back there were tears on his cheeks.

“You told him,” he sobbed. “You actually told him. I’m so proud!” 

Enjolras didn’t know what to say. He wondered what strange powers Jehan possessed to be able to read him that easily. He couldn’t possibly know that his shoulders had lifted, his frown had departed and his eyes were bright. They were brighter than any of his friends had ever seen, apart from maybe Combeferre. But even Combeferre hadn’t seen that sparkle for at least five years.

Combeferre had called in to see him on Sunday and had been taken aback by the glow in his friend’s face. It was as though all his cares had been swept away. He still looked tired and stressed and worried, but he wore it better.

“I see what Jehan meant,” he commented, a smile playing around his lips as Enjolras attempted to glare at him. “Being in love definitely suits you.”

+

The Specialist Stroke Unit was a marvellous place. Every day, Physiotherapists and Speech Therapists came to work with the patients to try and get them back as far as possible to full functionality. Elsa hadn’t been sure at first and had made a lot of fuss, as far as she could communicate with those around her. She made it quite clear that she wanted to go home.

Aire had sat with her, holding her hand tightly and brushing his fingers through her hair. He promised that she could come home as soon as she was able but first she had to stay here and work with the doctors so she could get better.

The prognosis was good. She had been treated quite early on and it was hoped that her speech would return, as well as most of the usage of her left side. Depending on the progress she made in the Unit, she might be allowed home in about six weeks time. It was left to Aire to break the sad news that she wouldn’t be home for Christmas.

His Granddad was very quiet, dealing with it all stoically and in the same manner that he had dealt with the cancer. Nothing ever seemed the phase him but Aire recognised certain gestures that betrayed the tumult of emotion within. He could see the way the man held himself; it was a familiar coping mechanism for when you were terrified that if you let go for just one moment you might start to unravel, which meant you might never stop, and then where would you be?

Aire made himself useful around the house. He sorted the garden and cleaned the kitchen. He made big batches of soups and casseroles to put in the freezer in preparation for when he returned to London. It would be simple for his Granddad to pop them in the microwave when he got home from visiting the Unit.

They decided to put the Christmas tree up and the lights in the porch. Aire snapped pictures on his phone and took them into the Unit to show his Grandma. He was thrilled to see her very crooked smile which was improving in strength every day.

His favourite part of the day was last thing at night when he rang Enjolras. They spoke of trivial things; of delays on the tube and Jehan’s troublesome customers. They spoke to hear the sound of the other’s voice. They spoke to bridge the distance between them.

The only serious conversation had taken place on Monday night. Enjolras had suddenly gone rather coy on the phone, stuttering his way towards a question which was most unusual.

“When were you last tested?” he asked, his voice very earnest. Aire was surprised but not particularly bothered. His body hadn’t been his own, as far as medical professionals were concerned, for some time.

“When I first got back to the UK. Why?” There was an unreadable pause on the other end of the line. Aire let it be, knowing Enjolras would spit it out eventually.

“Has there been anyone since…?” 

“No.”

“Oh. Ok.”

“What about you?” He knew Enjolras had been to the doctors on Joly’s insistence after the Patrick episode, although he hadn’t pressed for any specific details, respecting the man’s privacy. He heard Enjolras swallow.

“I’m all clear.”

And that was that.

+

Aire woke with a glow on Saturday morning. Today Enjolras was coming. He bounced out of bed, pulled on his clothes and jogged up the stairs. He clicked the kettle on and started to warm up the frying pan. A bacon butty was just what the day required.

Enjolras arrived just after eleven o’clock. Aire didn’t think he was ever going to let go. He knotted his fists into Enjolras’s coat, embracing with a desperate energy, trying to be respectful of the fact that they were in the street and Enjolras hadn’t even made it out of his car yet.

Enjolras would be staying over that night and then both of them would drive back to London on Sunday. They all piled into Enjolras’s car and drove to the Unit. Elsa lit up when she saw them, especially pleased that Enjolras was back. 

She was able to form some words now and her smile was more pronounced. Enjolras was astounded at the progress she had made in seven days. He sat by her side, telling her stories of his work and some of the more colourful clients he had to deal with. 

When three o’clock came round, Enjolras stood up. He kissed Elsa on the cheek gently, before turning to Aire who looked up at him, confused. His grandfather patted him on the shoulder.

“I’ll see you later, son,” he said, gruffly but with a smile. “Off you go.”

Aire looked between his boyfriend and his grandfather who were both smiling at him with inscrutable expressions. He felt like he was missing some important detail here, but as everyone else seemed happy with the arrangement, he stood up to go too. He squeezed his grandmother’s hand and whispered that he would see her tomorrow. She kissed his cheek affectionately and bid him farewell.

As he scrambled into the car, Enjolras shot him a meaningful look, but didn’t say anything as they drove off.

It took him a few minutes to realise they were travelling in the wrong direction from his grandparent’s home. 

+

“What on earth, Enjolras?”

They were pulling into the driveway of an old manor house deep in the countryside outside Sheffield. Enjolras parked the car and turned to look intently at him.

“This is my present to you. Some time together, alone. No flatmates, no work, no phones. Just us. Until midday tomorrow. Is that ok?” He looked genuinely nervous, as though Grantaire was actually going to throw this back at him. He looked back up at the impressive 16th century building which was covered in ivy. He could only nod, amazed at how lucky he was.

Standing in the reception area in his week-old jeans he felt distinctly underdressed. He was, however, relieved to note that Enjolras had a suitcase with him which suggested he may have packed some clean things for him. They were led through a maze of corridors to a beautifully decorated suite. The first thing he saw was the enormous oak four-poster bed. As Enjolras thanked the concierge, he wondered over to the window, peering out into the darkness, a lake just visible beyond the window. The door behind him closed and they were alone.

Enjolras was by his side a few seconds later, running his fingers over his hips and pressing a kiss to his neck.

“Do you like it?” he whispered. Aire smiled, turning slowly on the spot to slot his hands around the wonderful man before him. They kissed for a moment, enjoying the intense privacy of it all. He let out a disgruntled whine when Enjolras pulled back, chuckling.

“I just need a moment to freshen up. I’ve been driving all day.” He strolled casually over towards the bathroom, grabbing the washbag from the suitcase. He winked at Aire who flopped down on the bed.

“Back in a sec,” he called, blowing a kiss from the bathroom door.

Aire lay back on the bed, staring up at the hangings above him. It was the sort of room that was full of pointless cushions. It was extremely comfortable and he allowed his eyes to drift closed for a moment. They snapped open when he heard the bathroom door open some time later.

Turning his head, he saw Enjolras lean part way out of the door. He extended a long inviting finger and beckoned Aire to join him. He didn’t think twice, propelling himself off the bed and over to the bathroom.

Enjolras was already naked, his cheeks flushed pink and eyes sparkling. 

“Care to join me for a shower?” he asked, playing with the buttons on Aire’s jeans. It was a stupid question and they both knew it. Aire couldn’t get his clothes off quick enough.

The shower head was huge, the water pouring like rain, delightfully hot against his back. He pulled Enjolras to him so they were flush together, his hands gripping firmly at his hips. As his tongue explored his boyfriend’s mouth, his hands whispered down his back, marking pathways in the streams of water down his skin. He teased down to the very base of his spine, allowing his finger tips to ghost between the cheeks there making Enjolras shiver in his arms. Then he made a very interesting discovery.

“Holy shit, Enjolras, did you prep?!” Enjolras chuckled darkly in response.

All at once he could imagine Enjolras bent over in this very room, fingering himself, stretching himself, while Aire lay oblivious on the bed next door. It was nearly enough to send him over the edge on the spot. With a growl, he pushed Enjolras against the wall of the shower, biting down on his lip, stepping it up a gear. Enjolras moaned in pleasure, bucking against him, seeking friction.

“Want you,” Enjolras gasped into his ear and Aire heard himself laugh.

“I bet you fucking do, standing in here, getting yourself all ready for me. Christ!” He spun Enjolras around, enjoying the gasp as Enjolras came into contact with the cold tiles, his hands scrabbling to find purchase. He draped himself over the man’s back, sucking and biting a line across the top of his shoulders while his hands traced the curve of that beautiful, perfect arse.

“Where’s the stuff?” he nipped affectionately at his ear lobe, making him draw breath sharply. He pointed to the wash bag with one shaking hand, before letting out a small whine as Aire moved to retrieve the lube. He was quickly back, pushing up against him so as much of their skin was in contact as possible.

He pushed an inquisitive finger in up to the third knuckle, causing Enjolras to keen beautifully. He’d done a good job, he was almost ready. He pushed in a second finger.

“Please,” Enjolras whimpered against the wall. Aire was conflicted. He could quite happily take Enjolras right now; he was more than capable of completely losing control and just fucking him against the shower wall. But he really didn’t want to hurt him. He had to be sure. He pressed a loving kiss to the man’s neck.

“You sure you don’t want one more?” he clarified. Enjolras’s eyes were pressed tightly closed, his bottom lip red from where his teeth were chewing it in frustration. He shook his head.

“Please. Just. You.”

Aire moved out of the direct flow of the water, slicking his cock and then lining himself up behind Enjolras who was braced against the tiles, his back shaking from his breathing. Aire licked up between his shoulder blades before pushing in.

It was fast and messy and amazing. Enjolras cried out, throwing his head back as Aire entered him, but one glance told him that it was a cry of need, of pleasure. Letting his instincts take over, Aire set up a punishing pace, fucking Enjolras against the wall, enjoying the amazing sensation of Enjolras impossibly tight around him, moaning and trying to push back against the wall for more. He held Enjolras firmly at the hips, his fingers digging in, his senses overwhelmed by the sights and sounds. He reached round to take Enjolras in his hand, his wrist moving in rhythm with his thrusts. Enjolras came crying Aire’s name over and over like a prayer and he felt his release warm on his hand. He saw the shoulders slump before him.

Pulling out momentarily, he turned the man around, kissing him lovingly. He manoeuvred him, hoisting him up so that Enjolras’s legs wrapped around his hips. He thrust into him again, slower this time, enjoying watching his man’s blissed out face. Enjolras clung to him as though afraid he might fall off the earth.

“Open your eyes for me, love,” he groaned, feeling his own orgasm brewing. The trusting and loving gaze that Enjolras gave him was more than enough. He came violently with a gasp, slumping forward, pinning him against the wall. 

They unwillingly untangled themselves and rinsed themselves under the hot water. Wrapped in downy towels, Aire gathered Enjolras up bridal style and carried him out and over to the bed where they both collapsed into a restful sleep.

+

“It sounds as though you’re getting out of bed, but that can’t be right.”

Aire cracked open one eye as Enjolras shuffled out from under the sheets. The blonde grinned at him before stepping over to the suitcase.

“Come on you, we’re going to get some dinner.” Grantaire rolled over, groaning into the pillow. Had this guy never heard of room service? He felt the soft flump of clothes landing on him. He fought his way back to the surface to see what Enjolras had chucked at him. 

“I want to show you off.” Enjolras said, buttoning up a shirt and slotting in cufflinks. “All the time we’ve been together, did we ever go on a proper date?” Aire shrugged, smiling down as he inspected the green waistcoat that Enjolras had chosen for him.

“I want that receptionist to regret the way she frowned at your jeans,” Enjolras smirked, negotiating his tie into the perfect cape knot. He smiled broadly as Aire got out of bed, stretching. His hair was a state and his neck and collarbone were covered in bruises. He looked thoroughly savaged and Enjolras was thrilled to pieces.

After ten minutes of careful work, Enjolras pronounced Aire presentable. He stood back to admire how the waistcoat clung neatly to Aire’s waist and showed off his shoulders. His hair had been somewhat tamed and the suit trousers really showed off his arse. Enjolras licked his lips appreciatively. They had to go now, or they would never make it to dinner.

There were only two other couples in the dining room. They were seated next to the windows, the soft glow of lights in the garden casting a pretty aura over the view towards the lake. They ordered quickly, Enjolras even agreeing to a glass of wine, and they sat back and talked.

They spoke mostly of places that Aire had been as well as placed Enjolras wanted to go. Enjolras laughed at Aire’s description of Venice, he was suitably horrified at some of the conditions in Russia. He professed that he had always wanted to go to Scandinavia as he was particularly interested in the Norse mythologies. Aire joined in enthusiastically. Maybe that was something they could do together.

Aire couldn’t remember the last time he had smiled so much. His face was aching but the rest of him hummed with pleasure. He was keenly aware of Enjolras’s foot teasing against his calf, although he attempted to remain impassive. There was a dangerous glint to that man’s eyes. There was a mutual decision to skip dessert.

They practically ran down the corridor back to their room, giggling hysterically. There was a particularly desperate moment when Enjolras couldn’t get the door open, he was shaking so much. As soon as they were inside, clothes flew in all directions as they blindly staggered towards the bed. Aire took particular gratification in hurling the cushions to the floor before pushing Enjolras down on the mattress. 

Now they took their time, taking pleasure in each other. Grantaire wanted to press kisses to every inch of Enjolras’s skin. Pinning his love by the wrists, he flicked his tongue over his nipples and then ever so gently licked into his navel, unable to suppress a smirk as they other man writhed beneath him.

He released Enjolras’s wrists so that he could run his hands appreciatively up his toned thighs, thoroughly enjoying the soft moan this produced.

Now they had all the time in the world to remember each other, to learn each other all over again. As Aire stared down at Enjolras he didn’t think he could ever get enough of this. The poetry of this moment, he wanted to wrap it up and keep it in his soul forever.

Enjolras stared up at Aire, enjoying the way the man looked at him. He had long given up any hopes of ever seeing that look directed at him again. To see Aire like this was quite possibly his most favourite thing.

He reached up to run his hands over Aire’s skin, unable to suppress his smile when he was permitted to trace his fingers down Aire’s chest without the other man flinching and pulling away. They tumbled together under the sheets and Enjolras was reminded of a time when they were a lot younger, when fucking and arguing were almost synonymous.

They would never be perfect but they didn’t need perfect. They had this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, you get an extra chapter as this one got a little out of hand and I physically can't continue writing any more tonight.
> 
> I dedicate this little window of happiness to everyone who has stuck with me so faithfully through all the bad times, the really bad times and the even worse times.
> 
> The hotel is based upon Whitley Hall.
> 
> Chapter title is from John Betjeman's "In a Bath Teashop"


	16. I Thought You No More Worth My Hate And Care Not Where You Lie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> T'was the week before Christmas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for violence

They woke together, wrapped up and lost amid the sheets of the four-poster bed. They kissed and stretched and tangled themselves as one, savouring the moment. They communicated in soft skirting touches, whispered in long, desperate kisses, before rolling against each other until Enjolras sat on top of his Aire, straddling him, a satisfied smirk on his face. Aire was gracious in defeat.

“I don’t know whether you noticed the bath tub yesterday,” Enjolras suggested wickedly, tracing circles in on Aire’s chest with his fingertips.

Aire was torn; to move or not to move? To have Enjolras right here, right now, perhaps holding on to one of the posts, or clutching the headboard, or maybe just stretched out like a star in the middle? Or to go and play in the bathroom…

“You decide, my love,” he groaned, trying to roll his shoulders but not dislodge Enjolras from his position.

Enjolras considered. The bath was very tempting but it was in a completely different room, not to mention they would have to stand around and wait for it to fill. He looked down at the man below him, drinking in how relaxed he was. They could stay here for now.

He bent forward to kiss along Aire’s jawline, tracing his tongue down his neck and nipping at the soft skin by his collarbone. He began to move further down, licking, kissing and nipping alternately down his chest, round the nipples, blowing softly on them to make them rigid. He glanced back up; Aire’s eyes were closed in concentration, trying to suppress soft moans as Enjolras continued his ministrations.

The first scar started an inch below the left nipple. He paused for a moment before softly brushing his lips against it. He felt Aire still completely beneath him. He waited, fully prepared to stop or get off or do whatever Aire needed him to do to feel comfortable. After a moment, Aire let go of his breath and his shoulders seemed to relax.

“It’s ok,” he breathed, still not opening his eyes. Enjolras felt warm hands begin to tangle in his hair, running gently against his scalp but giving no direction, just a pleasant point of contact. He kissed further down the scar, letting his tongue run over the uneven skin where it met with other scars criss-crossing across the side of his abdomen. His hands settled on Aire’s ribs, pressing gently and firmly while he worked his way down. He was awed to be allowed to do this, to be allowed to kiss his Aire like this.

“I love all of you,” he murmured into the skin. “Even this, I love. I love it because it is you.” 

Aire moved then, sitting up, cupping Enjolras’s face with his hands, rubbing a thumb across his cheekbones, across a tiny silver scar below his eye. He leaned forward to press a kiss there. He held a hand over the other man’s heart, feeling the steady beating rhythm beneath his fingers. Enjolras mimicked him, his fingers splayed over Aire’s chest, before exerting slightly more pressure and guiding the other back down to the pillow.

+

They were both sorry when the time came to start repacking the suitcase. Aire couldn’t help but smirk as Enjolras shifted into his jeans, evidently feeling it this morning. He grinned back, blushing slightly. Aire had fucked him twice more that morning, once before breakfast and once after. It wouldn’t surprise him if he’d be feeling him for a week and right now he had the drive back to reality to look forward to. Somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to mind at all. Then, Aire was by his side, wrapping his arms around him, breathing him in.

“This was a great idea,” he muttered into Enjolras’s neck, before nipping softly at one of the many marks he had left there in the past nineteen hours.

When they checked out, the receptionist smiled at them sweetly, wishing them a Merry Christmas. Aire couldn’t stop himself from shoving his hand into Enjolras’s back pocket, making him squirm, before grinning broadly and returning the sentiment.

When they got back to the car, Enjolras swatted his arse in retaliation before making a surprised noise as Aire pushed him roughly against the driver door, kissing him forcefully.

“Haven’t you had enough?” he grumbled pleasantly, biting against his lips. Aire pulled back to grin mischievously.

“Never.”

+

“I think we should spend Christmas in Sheffield,” Aire looked at Enjolras to see how the idea would be received.

They were driving towards the house to pick up his Granddad so they could pay a final visit to his Gran at the Unit. Now that they were back in the real world, all the other issues they had left behind for the night were back on his mind, but they weighed a little less heavy upon him.

Even so, he was anxious about leaving his Grandfather on his own over Christmas. There had been plans to have a big Christmas dinner at the flat with Jehan and Courf. A large Turkey had been procured even though nobody really ate turkey except at Christmas.

He hoped that Enjolras would understand, maybe even come with him, but he didn’t expect him to alter any plans he might have already made. 

“I think it’s a great idea,” Enjolras agreed. “Let’s speak to your Granddad. Maybe we could ask Jehan and Courf as well? Jehan really got on well with your Gran when he came up to visit, and I’m sure your Granddad would prefer the house to be full of people.”

Aire couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face. Of course Enjolras would come with him. And they could certainly invite Jehan and Courfeyrac, assuming his Grandfather agreed. They pulled up outside Aire’s grandparent’s house. 

“Thank you so much for this,” Aire said, his eyes reverent. Enjolras blushed before pressing a kiss against Aire’s vaguely chapped lips. He hoped it conveyed everything he felt, everything he couldn’t say. By the way Aire smiled back at him, he thought it might have worked.

+

It was strange driving back to London. It felt like he had been away for months. Jehan had pounced on him as soon as he had entered the flat, nearly knocking him to the ground. Even Courf had pulled him in for a hug, moaning that they had nearly starved in his absence.

“Seriously, mate, it’s good to see you,” he said, patting the man on the back. Aire grinned broadly; he was pleased to be back too.

Both Jehan and Courf readily agreed to a Christmas in Sheffield. Aire had been sure to raise it with his Grandfather first, in case the man didn’t want a house full of young men making a racket. He had smiled in gratitude, saying that he would be more than happy to have Aire and his friends up for Christmas, especially if they were going to be the ones doing all the cooking. It was all settled.

+

On Wednesday night, Enjolras and Courf were working a bit later than usual at the office. Jehan was soaking in the bath. At something of a loose end, Aire decided to take the bus over to the Firm’s offices and surprise his boyfriend and flatmate with a spot of supper before escorting them home.

London at night was beautiful, especially in winter. All the windows were lit with tinsel and fairy lights. Through office windows you could make out the shapes of trees in an attempt to make the otherwise bland and grey working environment somehow more festive. The traffic hummed and buses grumbled but everything felt lighter, as though the world knew the holidays were approaching fast.

As Aire turned the last corner to the office, he fired off a quick text to Enjolras asking him when he thought he might be done. He chuckled to himself as he shoved his phone back in his pocket, imagining the look of surprise on his boyfriend’s face when he showed up. As he skipped up the curb towards the office, a shadow suddenly appeared in front of him.

“So, you’re the new flavour of the month, are you?”

Aire looked up, trying to place the voice but not recognising the man that stood before him. He took a defensive step back. They were almost right outside the office block. Over the man’s shoulder, he could see the security guard through the glass door, but that didn’t make him feel any better at all. It made him feel one hundred times worse because he suddenly remembered where he had heard this cold voice before.

“Patrick.”

The other man’s lip curled.

“I’ve seen you together. Enjolras is mine, he belongs to me. You stay away from him.” He shoved Aire violently but Aire was ready for it, moving his feet easily, his instincts kicking in.

“Enjolras is his own person,” he spat, trying to control his anger. They began to circle one another. Aire really wanted to hit him, wanted to punch this guy into next week, preferably the next century. “He gets to choose who he wants to be with.”

He tried to keep his brain focussed. If he gave in and just decked the guy it would put him in the wrong and make Patrick the innocent party. He had to be cautious. The last thing he wanted was to be arrested for giving what this pathetic excuse for a human being deserved.

“You’re just the rebound,” Patrick hissed. “The nice guy he ran to, but he’ll soon get bored of you.”

Aire wanted to laugh. This guy had no idea who he was talking to or anything that he and Enjolras had been through together. He definitely hadn’t a clue if he thought Aire was a “nice guy”. Anger made him cocky and gave him the armour to allow those frantically thrown words to simply bounce off him. The smirk on his face was obviously enough to piss the other guy off, to wrong foot him, because Patrick took a challenging step forward.

“You’re the rebound, mate,” Aire chuckled darkly, never one to keep his mouth shut. “Enjolras and I have been in love since we were fifteen.” 

Patrick swung at him. He easily dodged the first blow but he was distracted by the glass door of the office opening and two familiar people exiting the building. He made a snap decision and turned to smile at Patrick. 

“Fuck you,” he whispered, and allowed the second blow to connect with his face.

In his daze on the ground he was vaguely aware of a stickiness on the back of his head and a lot of shouting and cursing coming from above. He had just decided that this might not have been the brightest idea after all and that battering ten shades of shit out of Patrick was a much better plan when a boot connected with his back. He hoped that Enjolras and Courfeyrac would work out what was going on over here soon, preferably before he got kicked again. Then he heard Courf’s war cry and he smiled with relief, even though his head was banging and his back was protesting. Shortly afterwards, soft hands were pressing his face.

“Oh my god, Aire, what the fuck?”

+

Courfeyrac had spotted the two shadows as they had exited the office. His initial instinct had been to cross the road away from them, when the streetlamp lit up a familiar green jacket. Then he saw the other man throw a punch and the horrible sound of a body connecting with the pavement.

At the same moment, Enjolras beside him clutched his coat. 

“It’s Patrick!” he gasped, horrified. Courf broke into a run, praying to the stars that the conclusion he had just reached about the man on the ground was wrong. But Courfeyrac was rarely wrong about these things.

He rugby-tackled Patrick to the ground, shouting out to the security guard of his building to either help him or call the police. He was soon joined by other people, helping him to restrain a struggling Patrick while Enjolras knelt beside Aire who was bleeding on the pavement.

Enjolras honestly thought he was going to be sick. The angle at which he suddenly found himself, as well as that horrible stench of blood, was far too horribly familiar for his liking. He looked down at Aire, brushing his curls back from his face.

But R was conscious. More than that, he was smiling, even though his head and nose were bleeding and his left eye was closed, the stupid, adorable, wonderful man was grinning into the night. 

“You’re a fucking boxer, R, why didn’t you defend yourself?” he whispered desperately, pressing a kiss to his forehead. Aire let out a groan and coughed.

“How does me punching him help? How does it make me any better than him?” he asked, his good eye misty with concentration.

Finally the police and an ambulance arrived. Patrick was hauled away, while the paramedics checked Aire over. They insisted that he go to the hospital to have his head stitched up, not to mention he would probably need a scan of his back, given his medical history. He gave a resigned sigh as he was bundled into the ambulance. Enjolras rode with him, clutching his hand as though terrified to let go.

“He’s been watching us,” Aire told him as soon as they were left alone together in a cubical. “He knew we were together. He threw the first punch. The CCTV will back it up.”

Enjolras didn’t say anything. His face was pinched and his mouth was tight. Aire sighed.

“You’re angry with me.” Enjolras whipped his head round, eyes widening. He pressed forward to kiss him, muttering an apology when Aire hissed at the contact with his sore face.

“I am not angry with you. I’m freaked out and fucking terrified, but I’m not angry with you. Ok?” He stared sincerely into Aire’s brown eyes, waiting for the man to nod before releasing him.

“I’m rubbing off on you,” he muttered, trying to lighten the mood. “You never used to swear so much.” He was rewarded by a twitch of Enjolras’s lips. He held out his hand and soon those typically cool fingers were interlaced with his own.

The doctors came to patch him up and to discuss the possibility of pain medication. Aire winced at the look of horror on Enjolras’s face as he reeled off all the many prescribed drugs he was already taking on a daily basis.

Finally the police came in to take a statement. They advised that Patrick was being held on suspicion of common assault and that they already had a few witnesses to say that Aire had been approached and attacked without provocation. Already they were in the process of obtaining CCTV evidence to back that up.

They also learned that Patrick was currently on bail for assaulting a police officer.

“Sounds like a nice guy,” Aire remarked casually, feeling the sudden pressure of Enjolras’s clenched hand on his. He felt sorry for the flippancy of his statement but now that the adrenaline had worn off and he had seen the state of himself in a mirror he was beginning to feel more than a little pissed off. He knew he could have taken Patrick down. He could have so easily crushed the little cockroach and taught the guy a lesson. But he hadn’t. 

“Enjolras, I love you, but I’m definitely pressing charges.”

Enjolras nodded stiffly.

+

Everyone was very relieved to leave London behind them when they drove up to Sheffield on Christmas Eve. Aire had called his Grandfather to let him know what had happened and asked him to warn his Grandmother. The last thing he wanted to do was distress her on Christmas day by showing up like Frankenstein’s monster.

Enjolras was feeling horrifically guilty about the whole episode. Despite Aire’s protestations of “being fine” and “being able to handle the occasional fist to the face”, he couldn’t help but wonder if things might have been different if he had gone to the police in the first place.

“No, Enjolras, I absolutely forbid you to mentally kick yourself about this,” Aire had stated flatly while Enjolras paced about the living room. “You wanted to do what felt right for you and that’s fine.”

He knew Enjolras wasn’t listening, that he was far too lost in his own thoughts, his mind torturing him remorselessly. In the end, Aire had caught him by the wrists, bringing him close.

“It is not your fault. You cannot blame yourself for Patrick being a violent fuckwit. That’s his problem and his alone.” He had put an end to any further discussion by kissing him firmly, despite his mouth and jaw still being tender.

All the same, Enjolras was haunted by the look of worry on Aire’s face as he had submitted to the CT scan of his back. The huff of relief when it came back clear also kept playing over and over in his mind.

Aire’s Granddad was standing outside waiting for them when they arrived. He greeted them all warmly, insisted that they all call him Jim and as soon as the bags were all stowed inside they all went down to the White Rose for a Christmas Eve drink.

He took his grandson to one side to verify that he really was as ok as he was pretending to be. Aire assured him that while it hurt like hell there was no lasting damage and, as a bonus Christmas present, the guy that did it would be spending the festive season behind bars.

Christmas Day was a complete riot. Aire got up at the crack of dawn to put the turkey in the oven so that it would be cooked in time for lunch. Enjolras grumbled at being given sprout-peeling duty. Jehan insisted on chopping the carrots while still wearing his Care Bear pajamas, while Courfeyrac was failing miserably at cracking nuts with the nutcracker. 

At one point, a walnut flew across the room and hit Enjolras in the back of the head. Five minutes of pure chaos resulted as a furious Enjolras chased a giggling Courfeyrac round the kitchen table with the nutcracker. Full credit to Jim, he didn’t bat an eyelid. He did insist that they all accompany him to church to sing carols and light a candle for Elsa. No one had any objections to that, even if Courfeyrac was slightly out of tune.

On the way home from the church they stopped by at the cemetery. Jehan and Courferyrac stayed in the car, giving the other three some space. Aire’s Granddad went first, laying a wreath of heather on her grave before retreating to the warmth of the car.

Enjolras and Aire stood side by side, Aire clutching his boyfriend’s hand tightly to keep him anchored to safety. He rested a bouquet of white roses next to the heather, whispering a Merry Christmas before rubbing his thumb across the top of the stone. He turned to Enjolras, trying to smile.

“Let’s go home.”

 

At two o’clock they all went to the Unit to visit Elsa. She was able to wish them a Merry Christmas, something she had been working on with her Speech Therapist. She clucked in disapproval at the state of Aire’s face, but she was delighted to see Jehan and Enjolras again. She looked appraisingly at Courfeyrac who, quite out of character for him, came across all shy. She gave him a warm hug, welcoming him to her list of favourites with enthusiasm.

A rather aggressive game of Snakes and Ladders ensued which was won by a delighted Elsa, causing Courf to sulk as he was only two spots behind her. Jehan rubbed his back, consolingly. Aire was almost asleep on Enjolras’s shoulder, his party hat slipping to one side. It was time to be going home.

“Definitely my favourite Christmas,” Aire muttered, his eyes closed as Enjolras slipped in to bed next to him.

“What was your best bit?” he enquired. But Aire was already asleep.

+

Credit where it was due, Feuilly and Bahorel could throw a mean party.

The music was loud and the alcohol flowed as more and more people squeezed themselves into the flat for New Years. Combeferre made the effort to speak with them briefly, before he was whisked off by a decidedly tipsy Eponine. Joly and Bossuet were already lost in their own little world in the corner. Courf had managed to attach a “DO NOT DISTURB” sign to Bossuet’s back, for which he had received a playful slap from Jehan.

At midnight, the music had been paused so they could switch to Jools Holland’s Hootenanny on BBC 2 and count down to midnight. Kisses and champagne followed as the New Year rolled in. Bahorel insisted on First Footing with a lump of coal specially procured for the job, although the rousing chorus of “Auld Lang Syne” was so loud his frantic knocking wasn’t heard until five past. 

Aire and Enjolras snuck into Bahorel’s room for a quiet moment to themselves, just to clear their heads before returning to the madness in the rest of the flat.

“Last year wasn’t too bad,” Enjolras mused. “Ok, that was a total lie. Last year was horrific. But I got you back. If I had to go through all that crap first then it was worth it.” 

Aire smiled at him, taking a deep steadying breath. There was nothing he wanted in this world that he didn’t already have in his arms right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the second half of the last chapter. At well over 3000 words you can see why I had to stop and make it a chapter on its own!
> 
> First Footing - apparently this is a tradition that not everyone knows about. Certainly my family have always done it. My dad is a Londoner born and bred, as was his father before him, but my grandmother was from Huddersfield, so it could possibly be a northern thing? Anyway... for those who don't know what it is, on New Years Eve just before midnight you have to open the back door to let the old year out. Then someone (usually the male of the household, but screw that, I've first footed more than once) will go outside, preferably armed with a lump of coal and a black cat, and wait for midnight. When the bells sound to ring in the New Year, the First Footer must knock on the door and be the first over the threshold, welcoming in the New Year.
> 
> The chapter title is an appropriation of a line from Thomas Hardy's brilliant poem "Are You Digging On My Grave?"


	17. Love Is The Salutation Of The Angels To The Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> " “So, Grantaire. It has been two months since I last saw you. What’s been happening?”
> 
> Aire stuttered a laugh, tugging his hand through his hair, wondering how the hell he could even begin to answer that question."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, guys.

“So, Grantaire. It has been two months since I last saw you. What’s been happening?”

Aire stuttered a laugh, tugging his hand through his hair, wondering how the hell he could even begin to answer that question. He felt sorry for the poor soul who had their appointment after him because there was no way they were going to cover everything in ten minutes.

“Where would you like me to start; the stroke, the punch up or Enjolras?” he asked wryly, slouching in his chair. He saw the doctor’s lips twitch and she leaned forward.

“Why don’t we take those in turn. Start with the stroke?”

He sighed, twisting his mouth as he groped for the words to explain what the last two months had been like. His Grandma had been discharged from the Unit two weeks ago and was back at home. She could now make a cup of tea, negotiate a couple of stairs and, according to his somewhat frustrated grandfather, was also insisting on cleaning.

She was outright refusing to use the stair lift that had been installed for her use. The Physiotherapist and Speech Therapist were still visiting her two or three times a week and she had progressed enough that she could hold a reasonable conversation on the phone. Things were looking good, even though she had been forced to stop her chemo treatment before the final cycle. They were now awaiting the results of the scan to see whether it had worked or not.

He ventured a quick look at the doctor who was nodding, a certain amount of compassion on her face. 

“That must have been difficult,” she commented.

Aire considered for a moment. The stroke had been a terrible event and he never wanted to see his grandparents, or anyone else, go through that ever again. But in the context of Cancer, it had been almost easy to deal with. They had gone to the hospital, the doctors had done their job and now she was home again, visibly getting better. The Cancer was invisible. You couldn’t see that she had it which meant that you couldn’t see whether the chemo was working or not. That uncertainty was far worse. He watched the doctor scribble something down on her notes.

“You said something about a punch up?” She had her serious face on again. 

He gave her a general overview of the altercation with Patrick. She raised her eyebrows when he said he didn’t try to defend himself, something he now regretted, but she didn’t offer any further comment. 

Patrick would be going to Court for Common Assault in the next month or so. If he entered a plea of “not guilty” then it was likely Aire would also need to go to Court, something that he wasn’t really looking forward to. It was a relief that the guy was off the street for now as he had been refused bail. However, he knew that if it came to giving evidence, it was inevitable that his relationship with Enjolras would be publicly ripped to shreds by the defending council. He really didn’t relish the thought of Enjolras’s name being dragged through a Court room. 

“Things have taken a positive turn between you and Enjolras then?”

Now he smiled. His face relaxed completely as his cheeks raised and his lips parted, the joy of it reaching right up to his eyes. Him and Enjolras; how nice that sounded.  


“How is that working? Your relationship before was quite turbulent.”

There is no “was” about it. He and Enjolras were still very turbulent. Their New Year’s Resolution of “no more fighting” had to be hastily amended on 2nd January to “work at fighting less” after a knock-down argument about whether DVDs should be stored alphabetically by title or by director. 

He was relieved when she laughed at him. It hadn’t been anything to laugh about at the time, in fact poor Jehan had locked himself in the bathroom for two hours and Courferyrac had called Bahorel in to mediate. A flat charter had been drawn up, because if this was going to work, if they were going to live together and be in a relationship together and everyone live to tell the tale, then there would have to be a few rules.

They called it the Third Room. It was Jehan’s room and then Enjolras’s room. Now it was the Third Room, a room where you went if you needed some “fucking space”. The doctor unsuccessfully turned her laugh into a cough when he mimicked the inverted commas in the air. He had wanted to call it the Time Out room but had been shouted down. 

If Jehan needed the room then R was more than happy to be relegated to the sofa. Going off to the studio was also an option although, thankfully, it hadn’t come to that yet. They still squabbled but it tended to be more constructive now plus, and here he winked suggestively at the doctor, the make-up sex was fantastic.

The benefits of making this relationship work definitely made the occasional row worth it. Going to sleep and waking up next to Enjolras nearly every day was something he would never get used to. 

There were still a lot of bad things going on in his life. Nothing had been magically fixed over night. His Grandmother was going to be ok but the road to recovery would undoubtedly be a long one, and they still didn’t know if the chemo had done its job. 

He still had the days when he didn’t really want to get out of bed, when he had a crippling amount of block and couldn’t produce anything even though deadlines were looming.

“But I feel like I can deal with it,” he said, nodding his head with the certainty of it all. “My work is good. My friends are excellent. Having Enjolras in my life is amazing.”

There was a pause as she made a few more notes. He ran his hands up and down his knees nervously. He wasn’t usually so open in these sessions and she hadn’t even asked him about his pills yet. She drummed her pen on her desk, considering.

“How would you feel if I reduced your meds?”

R felt his stomach drop. He had not been expecting that at all. Seeing the alarm on his face, she sat up straight, arranging her face into a confident yet serious expression.

“I don’t mean come off them completely, just back to the levels they were just before Christmas.”

He scratched the back of his neck, considering his options. He had never had any faith at all the medications he had been on, apart from maybe the ones that he took to deal with the damaged nerve receptors in his side. 

He had never really considered the mood stabilisers, antidepressants and minor tranquilisers that he had been taking for the past eight years. They were just part of his routine. He took what he was told to take. No one had ever asked if he would like to come off them. He just accepted them as part of his life now.

“You’re the doctor, obviously, but I’m not sure.” He really wasn’t sure at all. He was absolutely terrified that this new sense of stability would evaporate as soon as his medication changed. He didn’t have a medical degree, why on earth was she asking him?

“I don’t want to be feeling like this and suddenly start feeling crap again. What if all this good progress is because of the drugs and not the situation?”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” her tone was more reassuring than dismissive and her eye contact was almost unbearable. “The drugs are only there to give you the space to sort out how you feel and you’re very eloquent about that. You’re experiencing a wide range of emotions and allowing yourself to deal with things. When I last saw you, you were running hard and fast in the opposite direction whenever you were faced with anything emotionally challenging.” She sounded almost proud.

“That’s Enjolras,” he remarked, folding his arms.

“No, that’s you.”

+

“Whatcha, boss!” Eponine high-fived him as he returned to the studio from an external shoot and jogged up the stairs, shouting down an offer of coffee which she readily accepted.

As they sat together in the front of the studio, she reeled off a list of things he needed to get done before the end of the week; there were four photo shoots and then a wedding on Saturday. He needed to sort through the photos from a shoot last week and then a couple who had married in January were coming in to look at the first draft of their album.

He nodded seriously, stirring another sugar into his coffee. 

“Oh, and Cosette needs you to Skype her. It’s important, apparently.”

He went into the office to set up his laptop and get himself sorted. He saluted Cosette as she popped up, finishing his coffee in one gulp.

“Morning!” he greeted, brightly, even though it was nearly three o’clock in the afternoon where he was.

“How are you, R?” she asked seriously, her face all businesslike except for a tightness round the eyes that he found difficult to translate. Instantly his guard was up. 

“Until about thirty seconds ago it was all rainbows and kittens,” he said cautiously, wondering what was coming. He saw her set her shoulders and take a deep breath. Cosette never was one to beat around the bush.

“We need you to go back to Budapest to finish your installation.” He rubbed his chin for a moment. That didn’t sound so bad. He had missed Hungary, and a spell abroad in the sun and heat would probably do him some good.

“Ok, no problem,” he shrugged, wondering what the fuss was about. But of course, she hadn’t finished.

“After that there’s a European Congregavit event which you need to take part in. It is being held across France, Italy, Spain and Germany.” He opened his mouth to interject but she pressed on. “It’s non-negotiable, I’m afraid. You have to be there.”

“When is all this happening?” he enquired, his mind starting to race with the full implications of it all.

“We’d like you to be out in Hungary by the end of April. The Congregavit is meeting in Paris on the 6th May.” Well that was a relief. It wasn’t as if he was expected to get on a plane tomorrow.

“We anticipate you’ll be away for just over six months, though it could be longer as there’s potential to go to other locations.”

Fuck. He had gotten used to living in this strange world where he had a home and friends and roots. The idea of going back on the road, being away for months at a time, it was alien. It was horrifying. He opened his mouth to say something, decided that there really wasn’t anything to say, and promptly closed his mouth again.

When he was young and feckless and something of a nomad in mind and body, signing his life away to JVJ and a life like this hadn’t been a problem. Travelling back and forth, staying in hotels and gîtes and rented homes for weeks and months at a time had been excellent fun. He had run and run all over the world. Now he didn’t need to run anymore. He had spent the last six months learning how not to run.

“Of course, there’ll be flexibility so that you can pop back to the UK in case of emergencies or for the occasional long weekend to touch base with friends.” She spoke in a quiet but firm voice. He still hadn’t said anything.

“Touch base with friends? Please tell me you’re not talking about Enjolras.” He stared at her, feeling a desperation rise in his chest. “Cosette, you know it’s more than that.” 

He had promised Enjolras, absolutely promised him that he wasn’t going anywhere, that he wouldn’t be leaving the country any time soon. He thought he was here for the long haul. Yes, his Grandma was much better than she was but they still hadn’t been told whether or not she was in remission. How could he be expected to leave now?

He looked up as Cosette sighed, rubbing her eyes. He saw how tired she was. He wondered how long she had faught his corner about this, how much she had already done for him. He thought of when they had first met, when she had so succinctly broken him down. She said she had known what JVJ was getting into with him, that he was difficult and demanding. He wondered if she had known how personally it would affect her. He wondered if she went to all this trouble with other members of the Congregavit or whether it was just him. Regardless, he knew she had taken a lot of risks with him. He owed her a lot.

“Of course, I’ll do it,” he shrugged hopelessly, rubbing his forehead. How on earth would he be able to tell Enjolras. How could he?

There was a silence between them for a moment.

“R. Do me a favour. Don’t fuck this up.” He was startled to hear Cosette swear so casually. “Talk to Enjolras. Don’t hide it, don’t wallow and don’t you dare even think of running. Just talk to him.”

Right, like it was that easy.

+

Aire was hiding in his bedroom. He was hiding from Jehan who was an emotional litmus paper. He didn’t want to talk about this with anyone before he talked to Enjolras. He owed the man that much anyway.

He went over and over in his head what he was going to say. Cosette was right, he shouldn’t hide it from him, and he should just tell him the facts. This was something he was obliged to do. If Enjolras wanted to break up with him, well, he’d just have to live with that, but he had to go to Europe for six months and that was that.

“Here you are,” Enjolras cheerfully entered the bedroom and sank down on the duvet next to where R was perched cross legged. He groaned, pulling his shoes off and resting his head against R’s shoulder.

“What a day!” he exclaimed, before turning to kiss him. He pulled back when he sensed Aire’s tense shoulders and lack of enthusiasm.

“What is it?”

Aire sighed. Already he could see the fear and uncertainty in Enjolras’s eyes. He remembered all too well how angry Enjolras had been the last time there had been a conversation like this, how he had stormed out and he hadn’t seen him again for five years. He prayed this wasn’t about to happen again. _Deep breath, R…_

“I spoke to Cosette today. They need me to go to abroad at the end of April.” He studied Enjolras’s face and felt a crack beginning to form in his chest. He ploughed on. “I’m going to be away for at least six months, probably longer.”

Enjolras jerked away from him, his eyes wide. Aire felt the crack deepen. He felt the bile rise in his throat as a flash of pain crossed the face of the man in front of him. Any moment now he was going to unravel completely.

“I’m sorry, I don’t want to go. If I could stay here, I would, but I can’t, I physically can’t. Cosette said it was non-negotiable,” he was babbling now, desperately trying to keep himself and Enjolras in the room. He didn’t think he could bear it if Enjolras left.

“I’d love you to come with me, but I know you can’t. You have your career and that’s fine. I totally respect that. I just need you to know that this isn’t like last time.” And now his voice was definitely cracking and there was a heat behind his eyes that was almost impossible to ignore.

He was completely astounded when Enjolras suddenly moved into his personal space and kissed him, his hands moving up his face into his hair, knotting there, pressing them together, so close and he was hushing him gently. Aire couldn’t bear it any longer and clung to the man desperately, taking long gulping breaths, trying to capture Enjolras’s scent while he had the chance.

“It’s just six months,” he continued. “Maybe we could do long distance? There’s email and Skype –" Enjolras interrupted him again with another press of his lips. Finally he pulled slowly back, just enough so he could look into Aire’s eyes while his hands framed his face.

“Listen to me, love. It’s ok,” He said firmly, his face sincere and calm. “Tomorrow I’ll go to work and give them my notice.”

R swore that his heart actually stopped beating right at that moment. 

“But, your job…” he stuttered, trying to get his brain and his mouth to co-operate.

“It’s not what I want right now,” he asserted, tightening his grip on the shaking man in his arms. “Eventually I’d like my own firm, preferably with Courf and Bahorel. That option will still be here when we get back.” He leaned forward to kiss R’s forehead and hold him close, wrapping him up in safe arms.

“I want you. If you’re going and I can go too, then I’ll go.”

They stayed like that for a while, Aire enfolded in Enjolras’s arms, listening to each other breathe. Aire felt the fear leave him, replaced by a strange calm. He closed his eyes, focussing on the warmth of the man wrapped around him.

“Besides,” Enjolras whispered with a conspiratorial smile, finally breaking the silence, “maybe Bahorel might actually have qualified by the time we get back.” 

+

Enjolras handed in his notice the following day. They called a big meeting at the flat, inviting everyone which proved quite a squeeze, in order to break the news. 

R had taken Eponine to one side before hand to talk to her privately as it affected her professionally as well as personally. She had given him the biggest hug and told him it was fine, really. He fired off an email to Cosette anyway, asking if there was something they could do about the fact that he’d just rendered one of his closest friends unemployed.

He was glad to have Enjolras at his side when he announced that they were going to be leaving for a bit. Jehan was in absolute tears, burying himself into Courfeyrac who looked stunned. Bahorel was the first up to shake his hand, offering congratulations, closely followed by Feuilly. Joly and Bossuet were equally effusive in offering their best wishes. Marius pulled a surprised Enjolras into an awkward hug. 

Combeferre studied them both through his glasses, a serious look on his face. While R went to try and placate Jehan and try and offer some comfort, he and Enjolras stepped onto the balcony for a quiet chat.

“Do I understand correctly that you’ve quit your job in order to follow Grantaire round Europe?” he enquired gently. Enjolras huffed a smile in reply before nodding. Combeferre smiled back.

“I’m going to hug you now,” He warned, before pulling him in tightly. Enjolras didn’t protest.

“What, no lecture?” he muttered into his best friend’s shoulder. He felt Combeferre chuckle against him.

“Enjolras, you don’t need me to lecture you on this. I think it will be very good for you. For you both, actually.” They stood in comfortable silence together, looking out into the darkness. 

The suddenly heard Jehan’s high, clear voice exclaim “does this mean we need to find another new flatmate?”

+

It turned out that two months wasn’t even near enough time to try and organise everything they needed to before flying out. R was occupied with winding down the studio and finishing off his current commitments. He was going to keep the building for when he got back and in the meantime he was lending the space to Feuilly and Jehan to use as they so desired.

Eponine had some exciting news of her own. JVJ wanted her as a representative. Her primary function would still be to organise R as his London contact, taking some of the pressure from Cosette. She would also be travelling to New York sometimes to work alongside Cosette with other reps and members of the Congregavit. She excitedly announced that her first assignment would be the meeting in Paris in May. R hugged her tightly, thrilled for her, knowing that she deserved it.

“I know you had something to do with it,” she accused him while he raised his hands defensively.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he protested, maintaining his innocence. She dug him in the ribs but smiled at him.

“Thanks.” He blinked in surprise and confusion. She punched him lightly in the arm. “Thanks for giving me the chance in the first place.”

+

At the end of March they received the best news they could; Elsa was officially in remission. R let out the biggest yell as his Granddad gave him the news over the phone, causing everyone else to come running, wondering what the hell was going on.

“She’s in remission” he cried, pulling everyone into a massive group hug, the relief sweeping through him. He was glad to have his friends close by, to keep him anchored to reality. To feel that shadow leave him was the most immense relief. Remission, it was a beautiful word. 

They both went up to Sheffield that weekend to spend some time with his grandparents and to share in their good news. A celebratory dinner was organised which Jehan and Courfeyrac were also present for, joining in the festivities.

The atmosphere in the house was glorious. Aire took the time to make Cholent, even though it took well over eighteen hours to prepare properly. The result was worth waiting for. He stood to propose a toast. Everyone raised their glasses.

“To family, to friends and to life.”

 

Before they left, Elsa took them both to one side, squeezing their hands tightly in her own.

“You look after one another, now” she instructed, looking at them very seriously indeed. Then she kissed them both on the cheek before sending them on their way with good wishes ringing in their ears.

+

More good news followed in the first week of April. Patrick was advised by his solicitors to plead guilty when he went to Court, which he did. He received a slightly reduced sentence as a result, but it did mean that Aire wasn’t required to present his evidence. 

He was handed a three month custodial sentence which was about the best they could have hoped for, considering the circumstances. It meant that they would be out of the country by the time he was released.

That night, Enjolras snuggled close into R who ran his fingers through his hair.

“Nothing to worry about now, love,” he murmured. Enjolras protested that he hadn’t been worried, even though they both knew that wasn’t quite true. It was a relief; one less thing.

+

Bahorel was in charge of organising the farewell party. In the end, it was decided that they should hire a hotel function room so that they could all dress up in their finest and have their photographs taken. R dug out his tuxedo from his Rhode Island days which caused a number of heads to turn as he made his way to the hotel.

They stood outside the room, Enjolras straightening his bow tie, looking sinfully gorgeous in his own suit. He caught the man’s wrists before pressing forward to kiss those wicked red lips. Enjolras made a disapproving noise.

“They’re waiting for us,” he mumbled, trying desperately to find the willpower to remove himself from his boyfriend’s grasp.

“Who cares?” Aire’s tone was dark and seductive. There was a hotel room upstairs with their name on it. He began to manoeuvre Enjolras towards the door when he found his way barred by Combeferre who coughed politely.

“Bahorel said you’d try this,” he remarked, his eyes bright with amusement. “He also said if you weren’t making your grand entrance in the next thirty seconds he would personally break your legs.”

Aire and Enjolras grinned sheepishly and turned around. 

Jehan was not the only one in tears by the end of the evening. R got to his feet, tapping his wine glass to warn of his impending speech.

“Firstly, I want to thank you all for taking me to your hearts. I know for most of us it was a very bizarre first meeting.” There was a ripple of laughter as everyone remembered that infamous night at the pub.

“For some reason that didn’t put any of you off and I am now extremely grateful to be able to call you all very dear friends.”

He paused for a moment to rub the back of his neck and consider his next words.

“Enjolras and I – and believe me I am NEVER going to get bored of saying that – we’re overwhelmed by all the loyalty, friendship and support we’ve been given, not just recently but over the past couple of turbulent months. I know some of you,” and here he focussed his gaze on Jehan and Courfeyrac in particular, “have wanted to murder us on more than one occasion.”

Bahorel shouted out a growled “hear hear!” of agreement.

“We’ll be thinking of you all while we’re on our travels. We might even send a couple of postcards.”

He reached out to take Enjolras’s hand, finding that he was running out of words. Enjolras squeezed it supportively and stood up to take over.

“Following on from what R said, we can’t thank you guys enough. I’m sure these months will just fly by and we’ll be back before you get the chance to miss us. So, until we meet again, we’d like to raise a toast to you all.” They all picked up their glasses.

“To friendship – Cheers!”

The applause was deafening.

+

Jehan clung to R tightly, while Courf and Combeferre took turns to shake Enjolras’s hand. They promised they would let them know their itinerary as soon as they had it. Their bags had already been checked in and now all that was left was to get on the plane.

“See you guys in a couple of months,” Enjolras smiled, the excitement swelling in his chest. They were going, they were actually going. It hadn’t seemed real, even when they were packing or saying goodbye to their friends, or even on the train here.

Jehan was eventually convinced to let Grantaire go. Courf wrapped a supportive arm around his boyfriend’s shoulders. R turned to smile nervously at Enjolras who grinned broadly back at him.

“I guess we better get going then.”

They waved cheerfully at their friends before stepping through to airside. Combeferre smiled in satisfaction as they disappeared from view, still hand in hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sobs*
> 
> Oh my gosh, I did it. It's finished.
> 
> Chapter title is taken from the brick.
> 
> +
> 
> I give in. There is going to be a Part V. It's going to be called "Postcards".  
> If anyone would like me to write about E and R in a particular city or country, give me a shout and I'll pop together a "postcard".
> 
> There's also going to be a few other drabbles from this 'verse so keep your eyes peeled :)
> 
> Thank you again to everyone who has been on this journey with me. Your comments have really kept me going right to the bitter end - I hope I did you proud!  
> x

**Author's Note:**

> I'm actually rather terrified to finish this. What the hell am I going to do?!
> 
> As previouly mentioned, I'm on tumblr if anyone wants to say hello (lynchy8)  
> All feedback is thoroughly appreciated :)  
> x


End file.
